


Seven Heavens, Seven Hells

by Suaviterinmodo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Acts of Kindness, Almost In Love, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Animal Instincts, Anti-Hero, Awkward Conversations, Belonging, Brotherly Love, Brutal Honesty, Bullying, Caretaking, Child Abandonment, Childishness, Chivalry, Companions, Companionship, Dark Past, Darkness Around The Heart, Delusions, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Compromised, Experimental Style, Explicit Language, F/M, Feral Behavior, Foiled Confessions, Forced Eye Contact, Friendship/Love, Gaslighting, Geographical Isolation, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Heavy Angst, Immaturity, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Impossible feelings, Instinctive behavior, Internal Conflict, Introspection, Isolation, Loneliness, Love/Hate, Loyalty, Lucid Dreaming, Lullabies, Lust, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Mind of a child, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Moral Dilemmas, Morbid, Multi, Mutually Unrequited, Nudity, Open to Interpretation, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Passionate Friendship, Platonic Romance, Possessive Behavior, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Public Nudity, Realization, Regression, Repressed Memories, Repression, Romantic Angst, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Gestures, Scent Marking, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Sibling Love, Slow Build, Strained Friendships, Suffering, Survival, Survivor Guilt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Timeline What Timeline, Unconventional Format, Unrealistic Expectations, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Abuse, Wishful Thinking, liking vs. loving, painful memories, situational depression, trial and error
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 29
Words: 28,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaviterinmodo/pseuds/Suaviterinmodo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*This story is rated "M" (MATURE) mostly for explicit, uncensored and creative language, both spoken and thought. The rest is gray area.*</p><p>Life is not a song. Love isn't romantic. Kindness is the worst kind of cruelty. In keeping safe, the danger is greater. In gentling the rage, the fire consumes. Two survivors, both so tortured, awaken each other to so much more than pain in the midst of a vicious, awful world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/gifts), [Gnomeybum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomeybum/gifts).



Story Notes: Idea for Sansan fan fic, a mashup of “Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison” and “A Song Of Ice And Fire”.

 

Obviously, Sandor is Mr. Allison and Sansa is Sister Angela.

 

Sandor is a large, hulking man with a no nonsense attitude, vinegar tongue, and the disposition of a dragon. He is highly trained to guard and kill. He hates formalities and keeping up with appearances. If something is deemed useful to him, he will use it and take it. Very straight forward. Thinks on his feet. Acts out of fear and instinct. Hates talking and waiting. Doesn't know how to ask for things. Surprisingly vulnerable and even gentle when the situation calls for it.

 

Sansa is a petite freckled young lady with high moral values and loves to dream. Soft-spoken, polite to a fault, demure to the point of shyness. Trained to be proper, courteous, and educated. Can read, write, sew and thatch. Sings well. Appreciates gentleness and beauty in all things. A bit haughty if angered. Emotional. Fearful. Insecure.

**This story is rated "M" (MATURE) mostly for explicit, uncensored and creative language, both spoken and thought. The rest is gray area.**

 

* * *

 

 

A ship goes down in a raging storm. Men scream out and drown helplessly. It is a black night lit only by fire and lighting. A deep voice howls, and grabs onto a crate. A huge body heaves, and coughs up water. The hands struggle to hang on to frayed ropes, _anything that floats._ The body shivers and kicks. The body is struggling, desperately trying to stay afloat in cold, turbulent waters. A voice grunts, a mouth spits.

 

1.

**The FIRST HELL: WRECKING**

 

Cold all around. Movement, pressure, screaming, tearing sounds. Waves. Water closing in. Flames. _Damned horrible flames._ The body drops under, dives. Swims. Away, away. Surface, spy hop. A small boat. A boat! Climb, crawl, fight. Chest over, waist follows. Legs flail, kick, hang off end. Uncomfortable, but floating. Above nasty water. Curl up, arms cross over chest and hands cover head. Shivers, shaking. So cold. Coughing, grunting. Nothing. Nothing. Out.

 

Heat, white light. Flames. Hearth. Floor. Shoes. Curiosity.Flash of black hair. Slap to the face. Tugging, tripping.

 

Taunting.

 

VOICE

 

\--Stronger than me?!

 

YOUNG BOY VOICE

 

NO! I—I DON'T!

 

VOICE

 

TOO LATE!

 

(SCREAM!)

 

BURN!

 

_Burn. Burning. Dying, die...pain. Drip._

_Flesh melts away. Agonizing suffering._

 

_DRIP!_

 

_CLAW HANDS SHOVE IN FURTHER!_

 

_VOICE_

 

DIE!

 

YOUNG BOY OPENS HIS MOUTH TO SCREAM-- NO SOUND, LIPS TWIST JAGGEDLY, NO SOUND, BLOOD, FLESH, BODILY FLUIDS—NO SOUND, JUST RUSHES OF FLUIDS, SQUIRMING, FLAILING, FIGHTING: IT IS ALL FOR NOTHING.

 

DRIP!

 

VACUUM OF AIR...SOUND GUSHES TO CATCH UP TO DARKNESS

 

YELP. A GRUNTING BARK. SEA WATER JERKS OUT OF THE MOUTH. GASP. COUGHING. SHUDDERING. SO COLD AND SO SEARING AT THE SAME TIME.

 

“Ah...”

 

He opens his eyes. Searing yellow light, perhaps a fire...no, it is the sun. The sun scowls at him.

 

“Yellow piss...” he hisses like a snake.

 

Salt sours his burning mouth. He can't hawk enough to spit. He groans as he struggles to roll over, away from the searing light. Wet sand. Muddy mush. He can taste it without it in his mouth. HEAVE. HE VOMITS, tasting sea water and a bit of wine. He is kneeling without knowing he got into that position. His head swirls.

 

“Ffff...” he breathes.

 

He begins to crawl on all fours weakly, trembling. He has so little energy. He gives in, collapsing. He pants. Scrunching his fingers he digs into the drier sand. It puts up no fight. He digs a hole, slowly, and puts his head into it. At least the dog is safe, he thinks. For now. He thrusts his head out angrily. NO! THE DOG IS NOT A COWARD! THE DOG WILL NOT HIDE!

 

He jerks his front limbs into action, crawling again, a bit faster.

 

“...the Lord is my strength, my song...”

 

A warbling, ethereal voice carries, reaching his ears. He stops, kneeling up again. His grey eyes dilate, eagerly shifting in the calls direction. He drops down again, and crawls as fast as his hurting body will allow him to.

 

The warbling stops quite suddenly.

 

“No,” he almost doesn't say softly.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Nervousness. She is not alone. That is all she knows. Oh, what to do now! Her first instinct is flight. To flee. Fly away. Who is close? Who is there? It could be trouble, an animal, something which surely will hurt her. No, not again! Not again!

 

She hears a bark. A short, cutting bark. A groan. Panting. She shivers, taking a step back. Her sky blue eyes widen, her head tilting.

 

“What...” she breathes ever so quietly.

 

She hears sniffing, coughing, another short groan. It sounds low, urgent. A...person? She is unsure. A person in pain. Her instinct decides she must investigate. She skips forward.

 

A SQUEEZE. No, a grab. She falls ungracefully over a strong resistance, a barrier of something that feels stiff. A GRUNT. HARD. A VIBRATION, DEEP, TERRIBLE. THE STIFFNESS SOFTENS, AND ROLLS UNDER HER LIGHTNING QUICK. ANOTHER, HARDER SQUEEZE. CLAWS THRUST HER BACKWARDS AND PIN HER. AWFUL SMELLS, A FLASHING OF TERRIBLE TEETH, A HORRIFYING, JOLTING STARE. VENOMOUS, ACID.

 

 

“YOU'RE HURTING ME, SIR!” she peeps out.

 

“ _SIR??? Only a dog and you...you're a little bird, aren't you?”_

 

“ _I am...a sister!”_

 

“ _Sister...?”_

 

“ _Sa_ _n_ _sa!”_

 

“ _Sansa, the bird has a name.”_

 

“ _Are you a bad dog?”_

 

He almost laughs, almost chokes, taken aback.

 

“Might be. _Could be._ Are you a good little bird?”

 

“I try my best, sir.”

 

“Well...” suddenly, nausea jerks him away...he dry heaves, belching.

 

“Help me,” he bellows, falling like a rock to the sand.

 

She fidgets out of his claws, angst-ridden. _Water,_ she thinks. _He needs water._

She flies away to get some from the little shack. Dogs can suffer. And this one has suffered so much.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Wetness_ _. THAT IS WHAT THE DOG CAN FEEL. Where is the dog? What is the sound? It rocks like the sea, the calm sea...what—what is that feeling...on the dogs head, the dog's...the...no! Not that!_

 

He jerks awake, sense of touch exploding!

 

“No!” he barks, already half standing up without knowing his reaction.

 

_Shrilling chirp! IT HURTS HIS EAR! HIS HEAD. HE REMEMBERS SEARING PAIN, TOO MUCH TO FEEL, BEING SHOVED, BEING ALMOST CRUSHED!_

 

“FUCK,” He swears aloud in a slicing bark, wavering.

 

“GOODNESS,” comes the aghast trilling of the bird. _The little bird is frightened again. Skittish little girl-bird. How droll._

 

He half laughs, half gasps, “You scare the dog as well, girl. The Dog doesn't _like touch.”_

 

“Forgive me, sir. I was cleaning you.” Her eyes were turned down, almost closed, head bent, as if in shame. SHAME ALSO BURNS THE FACE.

 

On the little one—for the girl looked quite young and was so tiny-- the burn of shame was deep red, as surely as her blood must be.

 

_THIS LITTLE BIRD, THIS TINY, CHIRPING GIRL...BURNS TOO. BECAUSE OF THE DOG'S BARK._

 

“ _No,_ little bird, I..I _won't_ hurt _you,”_ he hums out in a soft puff, daring to tap his claws upon her heated cheek.

 

She gasps, eyes darting up, so afraid. So very afraid even with a word given. Or was it the... _touch...?!_

 

The tap he has unknowingly given her cheek flies away behind his back, buried there.

 

He barely whispers, “Shit...!” to himself, all for himself.

 

The girl peeps something, low and quiet, and he is unsure if she means for him to hear whatever the song says. He turns quickly, suddenly facing her head on.

 

“What, girl? What do you cheep in this secret song of yours that a dog can't understand, eh? Tell me, it is a stupid mutt, it is!” He crouches, nearly sitting on his heels to hunt for her eyes, her sky blue twin souls that betray so much.

 

His claws scrape under her chin, and it is a touch which is more rough than he intended, but...he _must see. He has to see._

 

“ _Please,”_ she chokes on this word, shutting her eyes completely, frustrating him.

 

A twinge plucks through his stomach, one that crawls through him, like a flea or tick. Fast, running. Desperate to get away and disappear. And, no, he can not scratch this feeling away. He loathes this itch.

 

“ _Stop that,”_ he whines, sounding like a petulant child that hates to be tickled. “You _can't do that!”_

 

“ _Why? I'm only trying to help you,”_ says the tiny bird-girl, and he begins to see wet streaks drip down her still burning cheeks.

 

“So _help me, weeping bird, why do you burn me with your tears? Look at me, LOOK—AT—ME!_ _Dog is_ _up on_ _its_ _knees!”_

 

Shaking now, her eyelids bloom open, revealing watery skies. He wants to wipe those waters aside so she might properly look at him straight in the face.

 

He hesitates, looking for a soft, dry material, and he locates a white rag off to the side. As carefully as he can—he knows she is an easily frightened thing, but very much alive—he dabs at her lashes, lids, wipes her dripping nose, is steering it near her pink, pouted lips, as softly as if he might comb his horse's tangled mane.

 

“Here, girl,” he sighs, tired now. “No more pain now. No more.”

 

She stares straight at him now, as if in a trance, as if he might be The Stranger Himself come to haul her away. She does not blink. Oh, her eyes...her eyes _burn,_ but this burn strangely doesn't cause pain. They burn differently, not like fire, or the damned sun...they sparkle, like clear water, like metal caught in light, something polished, like a dagger, a sword, an ornament. An ornament?! _No...!_

 

_He wants to tear away! He doesn't like this new burn! Not at all! It feels...foreign! It is not what he knows burning is._

 

_And then, all he sees are th_ _ese_ _pink lips, so close now, and he th_ _inks_ _she mean_ _s_ _to kiss him. Instead, they bloom open, and a deeper pink tongue peeked out, darting to lick her pouting lips, and gone_ _it is_ _again._

 

“ _Thank you,” her voice squeak_ _s_ _out, mousey, timid, as if she_ _asks_ _a question but_ _isn't_ _even sure_ _she is asking a question_ _._

 

And, just like a blade slash, the burning is no more inside him. Only gushing blood. This time, not only does he tear away, he lets himself run.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**2.**

**Silent Descent**

 

All I ever want is love. Surely, goodness and kindness bring such a gift. Is it ever wrong to hope and dream? It can't always be so bad. Mother teaches me to pray—not only for myself, for my enemies, for even foes make peace after war.

 

Father says, “I will guide you always. I will keep you safe and warm.” He is great and good and he does not anger easily.

 

When I sleep, I still dream of grass, of growing flower chains, somersaults, blue ribbons, giggling faces, the scent of honeysuckle, of the snowflakes on my tongue. But, as always, I must open my eyes again.

 

“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. “I want you. You please me very much.”

 

I ache when he says this to me. Is it me he really sees? I can never be sure. He takes my hand urgently. I can hardly breathe.

 

Where did he go—he would smile, and this smile made his eyes glitter, as gold as coin—he tells me he'll never hurt me. But he leaves. He is gone but his body is still there before me. And so I take his cue and follow his lead, leaving too. It is not we who are left dancing.

 

He lets me eat his cake if I am careful, if I am dutiful, if I have learned well. If I am not—if I have not, it is not so easy. I want it always to be easy. I will learn, I say. He doesn't believe me. I suppose it's difficult to believe a naïve girl.

 

“I can't,” I say.

 

“You will,” he says.

 

He waits for me. He is counting on me. I have never done this before. I am not certain I know what to do. He sees me afraid. He laughs. It is not a pretty sound. I swallow so I can breathe again.

 

“Move,” he shouts.

 

He knows I can't. Why does he have to shout? He can whisper and it would work as well. I try. He is not pleased.

 

“I grow tired of you,” he tells me.

 

I don't know what I have done. I am led away.

 

They are waiting for me. I turn back and he is there. I don't like the smile he has upon his handsome face.

 

“She is over dressed, don't you think?”

 

He says this to one of his guards. The guard seems to know his thoughts and I don't like his smile on his face.

 

“Strip her, but leave her face alone. I like her pretty.”

 

He says this like it is nothing strange. Such an order cannot be for him, of course.

 

The guard presses me down. My knees do not hold me well. I feel a blade strike on my back. I don't know why I try to catch my open dress. I am a silly thing like this.

 

They see me. They know me now. And they are ready, I know. I close my eyes to dream again, if I can.

 

Now another blade, but this one takes its time. _One...two...three..._

 

And another sings its lonely song. _Please be quick, please be brief!_ Whistling, soaring, _poke, tap, pinch!_

 

I hum to myself in my mind. Things will get better, nothing like this can last forever. I will survive this. I have before.

 

My hum becomes a pretty song—much, much louder than the hurt. Lullaby, sweet pie, it's all right. I can feel my Father's glove curl 'round my hand to keep me steady—I can't fall now.

 

That is when I hit the ground, and I lay numb in the snow even if warm.

 

“What now?”

 

The guard questions him. I slowly open up my eyes to read his face if I can.

 

His back is shrinking, gliding away.

 

“Let them have her,” I hear him say.

 

And I find I cannot even cry. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**3.**

**Lucid Dreaming**

 

He thinks he smells something sweet. What is it? A pie? No, there is no crust. What is this scent? He does not know it. He sniffs. It is the sweetest smell he knows.

 

A hesitant touch. Shy. He wrinkles his nose.

 

“I'm sorry. Don't be angry,” a little voice said meekly.

 

He swallows, inhaling a short breath. The touch is gone. He shifts and starts to rise, but a touch to his upper chest freezes him.

 

“Please. You are sick. You need to rest.”

 

 _A healer?_ He is befuddled. Female healers only care for children or the poor. He didn't think a battle hurt him. _Sick?_ He scarcely fell ill but for his cups. But the healer must have the right of it—he feels so weak. His throat is toad-skin dry.

 

“W—wat-er,” he croaks out, sinking to the ground.

 

“At once,” the elfin tone returns, and a skin taps his forearm presently.

 

He seizes it, and it spills out down his neck, his tunic, his middle. It feels like a welcoming spring. He hears a gasp.

 

“You're all wet,” chides the fairy nurse as if spilling's worse than any sickness.

 

“Better'n' drowning.”

 

His tongue laps at the dripping end. He gulps once, the proceeds to gorge.

 

“Goodness, not so fast,” he hears.

 

“Blazing shit, nurse, the Dog's water'd, thank ye ver' much!”

 

He lets the skin plop down in the voice's direction. The sound it makes is hollow.

 “You're welcome, I suppose,” the cheeky reply came.

 He rumbles a chuckle. It is an explosive noise, like a popping cork. He turns, and only now realizes his eyes have been shut the entire time. Vision helps him little though—it is dark when he blinks, save for a lantern near. A small shape leans forward. The glow kisses two round orbs; a pinch of cinnamon specked freckles. A stubby nose.

 “Where are we?” he wonders aloud, suddenly the curious, fearful 6-year-old scrap of himself again.

 “Nowhere,” comes the answer. “Nowhere I can name.”

 He is greatly terrified now. He is reluctant to ask the next question, but it passes through his lips unchecked:

“You're...alone here?”

 “The Gods have been with me,” she assures him with the promise of the sunrise.

 He wants to believe this, if only for a moment, if only Gods can guide and take care of all such little fairies and bird children. He has been through the caustic gauntlet others call truth. He gazes back at her light features, studies this girl. The light momentarily flickers, and he is sure she is a mirror to pieces of what is left of the pup which became a beaten, half starved mess of a dog. He half nods, deciding the truth can wait for her another day.

 She covers him in a white blanket, or it looks a lighter shade—it has seen better times, he knows—telling him he must keep warm if he is to be well. She settles close by, but is certainly giving him wider territory as she is savvy of his dislike of touch.

 He waits, still as a fallen tree. When he thinks she is dead asleep, he rises, taking off-white with him in his claws. Ever so carefully, he spreads it out and drapes it over her tiny self. He puffs out a sigh and returns to his spot in the dirt, curling his knees to his stiffening chest. The cold does not bother him in the least. He is the one melting in the fire; stopping the burning from the inside of him is impossible.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

 

**A Wild Dog,**

 

**the second Hell**

 

 

It seems he does not heed my advise at all. He will stare at me as though I am a wet cat. He is also as silent as the Godswood forest. Gods, he is as tall and wide as the Great Gran in the old wood I remember playing in! And, oh, his scent—it is _repulsive_ ; it is of the long dead ancestors of the Stark crypts—straight from the cold ground!

 

He coughs, he spits! I half wonder if the next stream will be life's blood! His wear is scraps dangling and ripped—he is worse than my first rags-doll I made 7 years past!

 

He will not sit or lie—and most dogs I hear do, but he must be as broken as a direwolf pup! Oy, Bran, ah, Rickon! At least they stop their folly with a sweet cake in the hand!

 

I try stopping his wanderings away (Gods know where he crawls to); he says:

 

“What, bleedin' bird? Go tweet by yerself! A Dog's got to walk himself to think!”

 

“But, you must take care! There is food here though the water is low.”

 

“Aye? All I fuckin' need! Dog took the bird's water dish and drained it! What a prick he is, eh?”

 

“But you were thirsty—dry as sand, were you not?”

 

“And the bird does not think she will be? _Stupid girl!_ Save your chirps for fools!”

 

He wounds me! He trots away, limping. He has an injury—perhaps a cut in his leg. I cannot, try as I may, follow him, for even partly hurt, he is fastly away.

 

I am sitting quite alone in the softer dirt in which I catch rest—a touch startles me. It is on my hind neck—a poke! Hasn't he ever learned to approach from the front? What kind of parents raised him—wildings?

 

I catch my breath and nerves. He stares again.

 

“She jumps,” he flatly says. The corner of his lip twists.

 

“He stalks,” I snip back. I can't help myself. The man is odd, to say the very least.

 

“Only when awake,” he snorts.

 

And, by the Gods, I swear, he _winks_.

 

What in all the Summers does this mean? Nothing my head can figure out. He rattles it too much, I fear. He enjoys it, I am certain, and rather much. Oh, my word!

 

I think I hate him. Thinking this puzzles me. I've never been stirred this much before. Not even by...I must not ever think back on _him._ If I do...

 

Something tumbles out his putrid mouth. I did not quite hear.

 

“What?” I say, mystified.

 

“Would the bird know where to find some food? I can hunt.”

 

“I have fruit. Apple of pine, sweet firm orange pears, and nectar of bees. And lemons.”

 

“Piss on your fruit, girl! The Dog craves flesh.”

 

He bellows this, cold turned hot as a dip in the lake! _Ah, the spring! I must show him_!

 

“Come,” I say, and I wave my hand too. “I want to show you water—it is warm!”

 

“As you like,” he mumbles, and for a moment, the wild dog seems almost tame.

 

How ridiculously laughable! My stomach tingles at the notion, my lungs lie flat as if I've spent the hour giggling. Absurd!

 

“Here,” I say, pointing, waving, toes curling a bit. “In this cave, here!”

 

And I see the queerest thing as he follows me inside, but I cannot be too certain, as the light darkens 'round: his mouth, his lips, the ones which look softer—they curl. And it appears as though he might be glad. But I cannot tell. I only suppose what might be. And I know I suppose so much, silly thing that I am.

 

“Here, come and see—water, warm, fresh, so I think—I've drank and taste no salty brine!”

 

I say this, smiling and feeling strangely useful, not stupid anymore. Perhaps he will notice, too. I always think with such great hope.

 

He runs his hands through it as an old man does his beard—as I recall I have with my hair. His large nose inhales. He stoops, and strokes his brow wetly with the watered hand. It is in his dark mange of hair when suddenly he shakes his enormous head, carelessly splashing me in part. I scream. He hardly looks my way.

 

“You _truly are a dog_ , like you say,” I gasp. The moment mocks me. _Mortifies_ —that's the better word!

 

He makes an awful, painful scraping sound—I realize too late the sound is, in fact, _his voice!_

 

“ _Didn't I_ _warn you—_ a dog never lies about what it is!”

 

“A dog can be nice,” I say; I am rather struck by my own nerve.

 

He is silent. I think I may have tamed this dog. I grin in spite of my better manners. That is when he takes his great hand, curls it in a spoon and drenches me in a pouring rain. _Oh, THE BEAST!_

 

“ _FUCK—YOUR—NICE, GIRL,”_ he grumbles. “Dog's got to kill— _don't follow!_ ”

 

Now, I cringe in darkened silence. A _wild dog for true!_

 


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

 

**Of Flight**

 

The Dog has to get away, away from the bird. The bird is now an inflammation, an infection. She is the cause of his sickness! _Fucking girl, what a priss! Who does she fucking think she is to insist he stay still, that she can tell a dog to lie down?_

 

He is shaking as he strides as far as possible from the cave. He _hates her. He hates her for thinking she can look after him like a wet nurse!_ _He hates her for giving him the last of her water, for her incessant prattling worry, for treating a dog as a pet!_ He knows he is no pet.

 

He is hungry. He has to hunt. He has to kill. He has delayed it far too long. He finds himself on the shoreline. It isn't long before he spots wriggling colors, like slow-motion flames. _FOOD._ Quickly, he spots and tears off tree bark, breaking it into sharp pieces, honing the ends with his canine teeth. He rips off strips from his shabby leggings and ties some of the longer bark pieces together.

 

Wading into the salty mess, he is just past knee deep. The water and sky are almost mirror clear but for a few dark clouds as fate would have it. He does not feel the cold. He _does feel the nibbles_ at his ankles and toes.

 

_Strike! Blast, it scraped his toe!_ He does not feel pain, however. Just a poke. He growls, spiting, enjoying watching the stream break open the water. He snorts his amusement and then shuts all else in his world out. _Dogs eat fish when fish bite dogs_ , his mind proclaimed, and _THWACK!--_ he speared his first fish!

 

_FUCK ME, THE DOG WILL EAT WELL TODAY!_

 

He lays them out, end to end, sniffing, rubbing them between his claws. He throws himself down flat, laughs, and rolls. Then he ties them all together in a clumsy bundle, and heads to the softer place where he and the bird sleep. That is where he will enjoy the spoil the most.

 

The girl is missing. He gorges alone. He spits out what he doesn't like, but not in the bird's quarter of space should she return and chirp him senseless. That would be all he needed—more of her simpering tweets. How in the Seven Kingdoms has she managed to live so bloody long, much less on a _fucking island_ with no others around? It bothers the dog. Where was a septa, or a brother, or a mother, another lady? It made no sense, even to a simple dog.

 

Night is creeping slowly down on this day. She is still away somewhere. Doesn't she have any sense? She must not, stupid thing! For all her worries and chiding and nags and sorries, she cannot give a shit about her own?! _Idiotic!_

 

The dog leaps to his feet, sniffing out daft birds. It's so fucking mindless what people _make dogs do_! _He is quite sure he hates her now...! Oh, when he finds this girl..._

 

 

 

_I can teach you how to fly, he says one day. It isn't very hard._

_I want to learn, brother, the second returns, all eager with a glow about his face._

_Stand here, baby brother. Await my commands. I must stand behind to allow you room._

_He stands as ordered, straight and proud. He wants to learn to have his brother's power._

_He waits. He is nervous. Where are his commands? Where is his older brother?_

 

_He feels a rope cut into his wrist, and the pain begins to scream. His hands are behind him now, useless as though never there. His brother, towering over him whips back a pole, a cain of some sort. It is thorny. It stinks, it lashes and strikes like a viper._

_His brother snorts a laugh, spits on him, kicks him._

“ _You're the dumbest animal, you baby,” he taunts. “Dumber than a newborn pup!”_

“ _I hate you,” the smaller one whines pitifully._

“ _Huh, says the shit to a fly—you're mine, and you're dead, remember that!”_

 

 

She wasn't really a bird; he had to keep reminding himself that. She didn't—she couldn't _really fly away._ Yet she was away _somewhere._ Should he check the trees? He knew how to climb almost effortlessly—years of training, hunting, scavenging, and falling will make a dog learn. And the need to _get away._

 

Might be that's all the bird is doing, too. _Sulking over her wet feathers._ Ha, she deserved it for her shit grin—the puffed up peafowl! That'll teach her to not think she could ever have any sort of power over him, no matter how pretty the face or words might be!

 

_Let her stew, then!_

 

He turned back to the sleep quarters, spiting. Digging himself a shallow hole he lie in his portion and scooped the warm sand over, buried.

 

In a few blinks, he was relaxing, and his eyelids dropped. Easy...nice...quiet. Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

No sound. No light. No feeling at all. _Buried. In a shallow grave._ _Dead._

 

“ _I'm sorry,”_ a little voice said.

 

It is the bird's. (Of course it is.)

 

“ _Are you alright? Please don't be angry. Are you cold? Have my cover here. You must keep warm, you know.”_

 

“ _Not today,” he mumbled. “Not now. Just leave me be! A dog takes care o' itself, girl! Away!”_

 

“ _Oh,” she answered in half sigh. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir. I'll fly away, I will be gone.”_

 

_Up she went, wingless, outside the frame of his vision._

 

_Pip!..._

 

_Pip, pip!_

 

_He looked up, puzzled._

 

_Pip, pip—pitty, pip! Pip!_

 

_It was raining feathers over him! FEATHERS?! WHAT...?_

 

_POP!_

 

He is awake, he is alert, all too much. It is pouring screaming rain! The palm leaf coverings barely suffice overhead. It is suddenly freezing around, save for his buried chest and legs.

 

“ _Is that fucking so?”_ he bit aloud, annoyed. “Ya don't say?!”

 

Hurling himself out, he shields his face under a paw, and trudges forth, seeking a little wet duck somewhere yonder.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

**Chapter 6**

 

**Into A Cold Fire,**

 

**the 3 rd Hell**

 

 

 

I am still crying even though I do not know how I have this many tears. _What have I done to be so dismissed? I...I did not mean to raise his ire. Oh, he hates me, he loathes me..._

 

All I am doing is trying to help. Can't he see? I thought he'd like me being nice. Everyone likes nice people...but I suppose he does not. Why? Whatever happened to him that has made him so...crass? So angry and nasty?

 

He wants me away from him, I know it. What if he starts to strike me? I don't know if I can bare it! I never know what I have done so wrong! Oh, goodness. My eyes ache so much. I can't breathe properly.

 

_I thought...I could see him almost smile though it's so hard to tell with that face..._

 

He is a warrior—I can see it in his gait, his eyes, his stare. That face—oh, the sight! It must be so terribly painful for him. Such a thing is the living dead! He hardly turns to face me, but the first time I looked as he commanded, I wept inside. He has lived through Death itself, and I think he must have become a kind of kin to It!

 

A roar of thunder snaps my mind closed. Another flash chases it. Water tumbles forth. _Water...rain! It comes in armies, great and terrible!_ I fetch my jug from my robes. I will be needing it later, I know well. I set it near the corner where there is a little falls pouring. No time for idle crying now.

 

Oh, I am hungry, and getting tired. I brought pieces of fruit luckily. It looks like I shall have to remain here for quite some time. I nibble on some apple of pine. It tastes a bit flat, but this matters little. My hunger overtakes my last worries.

 

What to do when the storm ceases? I can scarcely think of that. Oh, to cross him again will surely lead to more fear and worry! I must not dwell on it now. I must remain calm, as my kin would be. Even my younger sister would not fret, but calm as a fighter always does. If I were a fighter...

 

Ah, I know what to do to calm myself! Yes, I shall sing, as did my mother for me. Oh, sweet, my lady mother, she is here with me now as I draw air through my lips:

 

_So light that light,_

_I'm on my way:_

_Homeward Bound,_

_Homeward Bound!_

 

_The morning brings_

_A bright, new day_

_Wait for me,_

_Soon I'll be_

_Home._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Dog suddenly picks up on tender calls, peels of a pretty bell: welcoming, heralding! Of course, the cave! She has not left! How strange, but the rain must've held her there, as a bird's cage. She is safe, she is all right. Now, to get out of the bleedin' flood!

 

He saw her through streaks of water then, hooded, profiled, cheek and eyes upturned, mouth parted and shaped: like a painting, fresh, exquisite, mesmerizing, fucking near perfect to his senses even through the haze of liquid. Should a wretch such as he disturb this display? Was he even meant to witness this? Surely not. Oh, but he must seek warmth and dry shelter if only temporarily. Even dogs needed shelter from time to time.

 

He steps through as quietly as he is able, not wishing to frighten her as he remembered well her skittish manner in his presence.

 

_I lost my way;_

_I took another road._

_I heard your voice--_

_I heard you call to me!_

 

_So light that light_

_I'm on my way_

_Homeward Bound_

_Homeward Bound_

_The Morning Brings_

_A bright, new day_

_Wait for me,_

_Soon I'll be_

_Ho--_

 

The bird swallows the rest, turning her head toward the vagrant. Once a painting, now a statue. Oh, these times never would run smooth!

 

“The lady is starting to panic,” he grates, voice coming louder than he intends. Not knowing what else to do, he presses forward, closing the distance between them. He tentatively reaches out his paws, his claws downturned. He grazes a sliver of bird claw, so tiny.

 

She is still, rooted as a tree. Her lip trembles, and the dog furrows his brow. _No, no! Not this!_

 

“You're _shaking,_ girl. Do I frighten you _so much?_ ”

 

“ _What are you doing here?”_ she chirps incredulously.

 

“Not here for long,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes dropping, head bowing.

 

“ _You...won't hurt me,”_ she falters, eyes watery and large.

 

“I—little bird, _don't—not again!--”_

 

He clamps his paw around her petite wrist, shaking her on contact. His last two words are harsh, heavy with emotion.

 

 

“ _Please!_ Let go of _me,” shrieks the trembling girl._

 

He growls in frustration.

 

The bird struggles to free herself, which in reflexive turn causes the dog to squeeze and catch her other claws with the other paw.

 

“ _S_ _top_ _it!_ _N_ _o_ _more_ _,”_ his bark quivers, and now, _somehow_ she is free, and flies panicked away straight into the _bastard storm!_

 

_BLAZING FUCKS!!!_

 

“ _GIRL...!!!” He howls in a curdling bellow._

 

 _OH, THE ABSOLUTE COCKING FUCKERY! SHIT, SHIT, PISSING BROWN SHIT!!! THIS BASTARD-BITCH OF A_ _RAW HIDE_ _DAY WOULD NOT QUIT SUCKLING FROM A WITCHES COLD TIT!_

 

He turns on his heel and rages on, in hot pursuit.

 

“SAN--SAAA,” he calls out, pure fiery hotness. “COME BACK THIS VERY MINUTE!!!”

 

There is nothing but muddy haze now, slowing him down. He _can't_ let her get away, he can't let her stupidly hurt herself. _She knows nothing in her crazy flight! Nothing!_

 

Through leaves and brush, he sees a hump in the mud. _It is the little fool bird, of course, face down._ _The dog's teeth grind._ He stoops to scoop her out of the sludge, groaning. He cradles her frame and races back as quickly as he is able to the cave.

 

He plops her down, shuddering, grunting. He tears and rips through her robes, now thoroughly caked and ruined. He tosses her into the spring, following shortly after ripping his own remaining garb off. He grabs hold of her waist, and tilts her head back and up. He spoons deep paw-fulls of warm liquid to rinse her nose and mouth, and wipes her nose and lips off with his pads.

 

He puckers open her mouth, and crashes his jaw up against it, puffing, blowing, hissing, sighing. For a few seconds, there is no sign of life from her. Precious time creeps by. He is agonized and livid in equal measures. He beats upon her back with his open pad. The skin there begins to break.

 

“ _Fuck_ , girl, I'm _t_ _elling_ _you not to go! You can't! You fucking can't! Bleedn' balls,”_ he hisses.

 

He lets her begin to tilt to the right naturally, momentarily giving up. He abruptly twists her toward him, latching his mouth over hers, forcing it open with his claws and his tongue. He sucks, he pulls hard and now...mud and bile are up greeting his taste buds, the putrid, foul flavor never sweeter.

 

She shudders a rasping cough, wheezing, the sound part sob.

 

He urgently expectorates the offending phlegm, and draws her very close, humming in relief. The dog opens her mouth again, and spoons some water inside. She draws up in reflex and gasps.

 

“It's fine, little bird, spit it out,” he instructs softly.

 

She does. He grins, despite himself; he presses his stubbled, prickly cheek to hers.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers a hair behind her ear. “You're all right. You're all right now.”

 

The girl moans and tries to put sounds together. She shakes.

 

“What, bird? What's the matter? You can talk to the dog.”

 

The petite thing tries, but she is quaking much too hard.

 

“Cold—the little bird is cold, is she not? The dog can help. Come.”

 

He rises, carrying her, and deposits her down in soft sand. He rapidly digs a shallow hole big enough for them both, gets in, and lifts her up, over, and onto his grizzly chest. Padding the sand over them, he reclines into a more comfortable position.

 

“A mite better, mmm?” he purrs, tapping the tip of his snout to her stubby, speckled beak. “It's the dog's turn. It's only fair for lookin' after it, eh? But, listen: you'll have to help. Help, and you can be the world; as much as you like.”

 

The bird unconsciously rubs her cheek against him as she might a precious doll. Sighing, she relaxes almost completely. He finds himself worrying that he may be suffering some sort of illness so unlike the one whom lies dormant atop.

 

“I'll keep you safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again while you are with the hound,” he mutters just before letting himself drift off.

 

For the first time in many lightless years, with a soft girl-bird set sleek against him, he lets himself smile. Sweet rest gently comes, surrounding.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the band marches on...

**Chapter 7**

 

**Caring for a Sister**

 

The dog jolts from sleep by wetness, a familiar pattern. It is the little one's. She is drenched in her own sweat. _No, no! She is ill! She suffers!_ Must think,  must act!

 

Rising, he cradles her quaking body. He sees the pitcher full of water. He lies her down quickly and reaches for the water and fills his mouth. He does not swallow. He presses his lips to hers. He opens her mouth with his claws. The lips are dry, but they still pout. He opens his mouth. The water drips into hers. She gags. He draws back.

 

“No, little one. No one is hurting you. No one will, or I'd kill them! You are ill, bird; let the dog help you. Drink; it is only water, I swear it! It will help you. Now, be still.”

 

He fills up his mouth again; this time his is more slow. His jowl taps her lips. The lips form a closed “o” shape.

 

“Open your mouth, little? Mmm?” He says in quite a silly murmur, his mouth half-full of liquid.

 

She astounds him by not only opening her lips but sticking out her little tongue, which is arid. He closes his mouth around it, softly returning the gesture inside her beak, water spilling in all the while. The Dog instinctively closes his eyes, swept away for a tick of a moment. He shivers, and in a snap, draws away.

 

_What a drink,_ he mocks to himself.  _A fever drink, yours or hers?_

 

She swallows, sighing. Her lips twist down severely, then twitch.

 

“Mmm,” she hums out. Even this is a pretty sound. She turns her head from side to side as if in a squirm. 

 

“What, bird? What's the matter now? Dog will help.”

 

The bird writhes as if in pain; she shrieks and calls out: 

 

“ _Don't touch me,”_ she screams. “ _Why are you doing this? I've done nothing! Stop, please, sir, I beg of you!”_

 

“ _I'm not a sir, little bird, I am a dog, remember? I did not touch you to hurt you,”_ the dog returns shamefully, crushed.

 

“ _Dog? Why are you so mean to me? I—I wasn't rude, was I? I did not mean--”_

 

He reached out, putting the pad of his paw over her lips to quiet her. He could take no more of this hurt.

 

“ _Enough,”_ he hissed. “No more, child. I'll take none of this. I—I _am mean, yes._ Been so a long time. _But I am not_ _thus_ _because of you. Never_ _thus_ _because of you. Do you hear me, girl?”_

 

The child shut her mouth; the Dog felt her newly wet lips press up against his pad. _What in the...?_

 

“ _A...” she stuttered. “Uh...”_

 

He taps her cheek and grumbles.

 

“ _No, I say. Save yourself some pain, girl—give me what I want. No chirping. Now, rest. Mustn't waste your energy on more chirps.”_

 

She whimpers, she moans. Is she in pain? It is difficult to know. She gasps...and she is pissing; it trickles and spreads to his... _shit..._

 

He decides not to care. She is very ill. She is still feverish.

 

“I'll get you clean,” he mumbles. “Can't leave you infected. Come, now.”

 

Dutifully, he scoops her into his arms and shortly lowers her legs first in the spring. He whispers to her to sit down. She does, so he says she is a “good girl”.

 

“You're a good girl, aren't you? Girls like you are always trying to please their masters. _Why, little bird?_ This can only hurt you all the more; the world is oft'n not so kind. _You should_ _not_ _be so kind._ _Aye_ _, it_ _must have pained you. You give yourself away_ _too easy_ _.”_

 

The dog croons this as he washes her tenders, as he wets her face. He lets her cling to him closely. He lets her claws scratch his neck and his back—even his face, stopping them just short of his long, wide scars.

 

“ _Mmm-p,”_ he sighs, catching her tiny claws.

 

She lets out an almost sobbing sound. He again taps his longer claw upon her cheek.

 

“ _What did the dog say? Eh? He told you not to touch—not there. Be the good girl that you are, and don't, aye?”_

 

This is when he feels droplets on his paws. The bird is crying again silently.

 

“I will,” she whispers. “Sorry, dog.”

 

He puffs out a breath. He hesitates. He thinks. It is not the thoughts he likes at all.

 

_Fuck, this girl confounds the dog! Fuck, fuck, triple fuck!_

 

“Fuck me,” he groans too loudly. “Make the bird cry _so much!”_

 

He promptly washes her face once more, taking care to wipe the smaller tears from her lashes. He spoons water for her to sip on.

 

She suddenly wobbles, grabbing the first thing blindly to stay supported above the water...which happen to be his.... _h-i-n-d..._ _a..._

 

_And...blind,_ _silly_ _thing she is...she unknowingly squeezes._

 

The dog _feels his damned tail twitch._ He hoists her over his shoulder; hauls her out like a sack of flour. Plopping her down, he buries her legs and chest in the soft grains so he won't have to _look._ He turns away, shuddering, and bites down on his foreleg until it nearly bleeds.

 

His tail shrinks down, once more low between his legs. _She is but a child, she is so young and small and pure. She is not his toy to play with. She is ill, besides. Though still a dog, mangy and rough,_ _this one does not take what's not his, even when so achingly ravenous and slobbering._

 

He licks the bruise beginning to form. He shuts his eyes tightly. _Sister..._ _oh, sister..._

 

 

 

**The 4 th Hell, Torturing Lust, A Searing Fire Within**

 

_Don't breathe...breathing only smothers the ones who dare to try to live..._

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 

**Wake not from a Dream So Sweet**

 

The little bird sleeps so deep. The Dog brings her flesh of fish, her piss fruits, picks more of it around the land. She does not eat on her own. He softens it in his own jaws for her and transfers it painstakingly, taking care to make sure she swallows it— _all of it_ , even if she winces at the amount or taste. But the dog lets her take her time. He has no other choice the way he sees the present state of her.

 

She is so weak. It isn't her fault, but it _is_ her doing. She is so scared...of everything. He has never known a thing so full of fright, so shy. It shreds him up as he cradles his pounding head. The girl slowly poisons his thinking.

 

The girl...the girl...why can't he stop these anxieties? It is unfair, but this is so his entire life. Such is his sentence. No less than a strange hell of want and no right to have.

 

He pisses in a corner, far away from her, in part to relieve himself, in other part, to rid himself of her scent on him. She keeps wetting on him; he knows this is the bleedin' illness, taking dignity away from her.

 

“Are you marking me for your own, you little raven? Be satisfied you have a serf at your beck and call. This is what you reap when you pity a mutt!”

 

She weeps often in changing sleep. He sighs, rolls his eyes, grunts, tells her, “No more! Stop this now!” while taking her little claws in his. She seems to quiet down at his touch. He groans in his head.

 

How many more days, how much longer? He lost count. He was doing everything he knew, washing her fragile body, keeping her cool and warm as the tides in her illness continue to change, keeping her close without violating any part of her. What else could he possibly do?

 

A wail shatters his slumber; he was at once on his knees before the girl's pitiful living shell. She would choke herself on her snot in her own crying fit like this! Death to her cunting disease rotting her senseless!

 

“ _No, no! I've told you, you pitiful,_ _stupid_ _girl! You have to learn not to weep so much! It's killing you, and it's flaying me!”_

 

He sweeps her up, now bearded chin perched on the crown of her head. She would not appease so easily, still crying so hard, blubbering nonsensical sounds.

 

He took to wiping her eyes and especially her stubby beak to keep her airway clear. He pounds on her back in a rhythmic nature, ordering, “Cough for the dog! _Cough! Now, I say! Do it!_ _No time for playin', fucking tart!_ _”_

 

 _N_ _othing. More tears. Ugh,_ _the_ _cunt!_

 

He rages now.

 

“That's it, bird, I'm spitting in your _fucking mouth until you bleed'n' gag! Fuck you ver' much!”_

 

He presses his mouth to a by now recognizable spot, and pushes it open with a slimy, lolling, rolling, wet muscle. This is the precise moment she spews vomit into his open orifice, just like a mewling babe! _Blood tastes much sweeter,_ he thought ruefully, hawking it out away from the _child in his bloody lap!_

 

 

Clean up time once more. The dog should just become a full-time washer wench. It probably would get him more consistent pay. Oh, that's right, he _wasn't_ getting paid! He was a serf for a pukin' child of some lady whore! He chuckled aloud, spiting.

 

_More shit? Fate, challenge me! I am king of shit! I make it, then lick it up until clean again!_

 

After the infinite number of cleaning himself and herself, he made to lie her down as gently as able. As he is sliding her down off of his hold, she whines, squeezes his forearm, and babbles a “no!”.

 

“Now the little bird chirps her discontent? _Oh, pardons, m' little lady!_ Would you be satisfied with a _**coup de theatre**_? _Hmm?”_

 

She _coo_ _s_ _, now a fledgling dove._

 

“Well, then, you shall have it, you fussy gosling! And, might be, it pleases you, too. Ya think it migh' a tiny bi'?”

 

She hummed, a sweet note of a twitter. She even _turned her chapped lips up._

 

He half smiles, and pokes the tip of his tongue out at her, knowing she'd never see it with her lids down as they presently are.

 

“Come on, then,” he says, sounding quite impetuous to his own ear.

 

He puts her down, but doesn't break touch with her. He holds her talons in soft paws.

 

“Tell me, is the little bird comf'tur'bull?” he rumbles, drawling out the final syllable.

 

Her head twitches up and down in a nod. She is listening and responding.

 

“Now, tell me, would she like some water?”

 

She animatedly babbles, gurgling.

 

“Is this is yes?”

 

“Ahhh,” she vocalizes, wrinkling her stub, lines deep in her brow.

 

“G _irl, not so much, now._ _This d_ _og knows_ _a_ _“no” when he sees 'n' hears it!_ _Don't break y'_ _r'_ _self!”_

 

She presses lightly on the heal of his pads, perhaps letting him know she understands him.

 

He grins quickly, then flinches, and lets the smile slip away back into neutral lull. Such makes his face feel uncomfortable pulls, ones impossible to hold for long. His face has been viciously pulled and twisted much too often.

 

 _You hurt me so oft, an' I know you don't mean it, little lady- bird,_ he nearly declares out loud.

 

He wonders why there are such abrupt, rude tears threatening to spill from his watering eyes. He is beginning to exhaust; this must be the reason. He yawns, covering his gaping hole. His body plops down, his snout seeking out the bird's beak of its own accord. It nudges her cheek, and turns her face in spurting degrees until it finds her stub. He lets a puff slip through it, and there it stays. Relaxation. Scent of bird. Sleep. Precious sleep.

 

**The First Heaven, Restful Sleep is Bliss for Both**

 

_The bird's scent is milk of poppy for his pain, he is sure of this now. So sweet it soothes, asking nothing in return._

 

_Oh, fucking hells..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

I hear a thundering bellow. Is it more rain? Oh, I am _so cold, so cold._ I can't think. I can't see. I can't move. _I...am nothing._ I am unsure I like the feeling...or, rather, the _unfeeling._

 

 _Blob._ I feel heavy, but as a drippy liquid, not like water, not so fast, but so slow, like honey in mead. Ohh, aaaaaah! _It is my life blood—I am my own dripping, stinking, leaking blood!_ I am melting away, droplets at a time, as sand in an hour glass. _I reek of stenches, gagging smells, but I cannot cough!_ Now, there is a flood, a tidal wave of water drowning me, drenching me, yanking me this way, that, the other, ways I never knew, in fact, existed. This goes on immeasurably, unforgivingly. The water turns boiling, melting me again. My nose, my mouth. I can't breathe, struggling as I do try. _Oh, help me, please...please, mercy, gentle Mother..._

 

 _Ack, poison! I am poisoned! It gushes up. Out, somehow gone._ Cold again, searing cold! I hear a buzz...

 

...no, a hum, a long, whirring sound which I can ever so queerly feel even more richly. It calms me straight away, I know not why. I can feel warmth, consuming warmth, and scratches all around. But they don't sting or stick...so odd. I am rising ever so lightly.I let myself be taken by this, it feels wonderful after so much unpleasantness.

 

 _Haze. I wake. His bed, oh, no! Not him!_ Please be a nightmare! Please, not the present! _Anything but this!_

 

I see a glove, a hand. Thick sweat.

 

“ _Fuck her, fuck her, fucking hells...”_

 

_I can't place the angry voices..._

 

_It hurts, my hind flesh is whipped, bruising, torn open...bleeding red grains of sand all out...so many grains..._

 

_Hands seize me and whip me._

 

“ _You fucking can't!” the deep, angry raging voices roar._

 

_I am cleaved, my hind is split in two. I drip and boil, then start to melt away; not like water. I am air now, slave to a burning sun._

 

“You're nothing but a cunt, so I can fuck with you,” he declares so coldly;

 

I am freezing again. He is again all I can see. I can't shut my eyes. His beauty only makes him all the more hideous. His hatred burns right through his emerald eyes. No buckets full of my tears ever could extinguish that. But they fly out anyway.

 

“ _How could you? You were there, the same as I! Have you been cursed by a witch?”_

 

She stands, hands on her hips, scolding me like she is our Mother, our Lady Mother, who has my same look about her. _She hates me. I know this._

 

“ _What should I have done? He is my intended! He was frightened.”_

 

“ _Ha; of course he was, by my steel! He can't even hold a sword, and he's next in line as King!”_

 

“ _Mother would be appalled by your tone! You're so rude,” I say, irritated by her manner._

 

“ _Mother's suckling piglet,” she growls, pushing me back._

 

_I stumble. She is shorter than I, and two seasons younger, but she already is stronger and quicker and so angry._

 

“ _I hate you,” she grinds out, her back trudging away from me._

 

“ _At least_ _I am a lady,_ _” I retort, sati_ _s_ _fied that I have the last word._

 

“ _At least I am a fighter, unlike some weak girls I know,” I hear her cut back._

 

 _How in the Seven could she be so mean? I remember wondering. I wonder too much for my own good. Though she never could see me doing so, I cried again, but I made sure no one knew._ _Even I almost forgot about it._

 

Another flood takes me. My own tears, I suppose. _Father's head was cut, mother was slain and thrown into her own home river to rot. And she was...just gone. Lost. Like our baby brothers._

 

“ _You killed him, you know,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Your lies killed him! He was my friend!”_

 

“ _I didn't know—I didn't know he would have him killed!”_

 

“ _Well, he_ _did!_ _I should cut your tongue and feed it to the ravens!”_

 

“ _No, Arry! Please! I weep for him too, you know!”_

 

“ _Pox your tears, no, you don't! You only cry for yourself because you chose a handsome bed-wetter who is really a slimy snake! I hope he has his way with you!”_

 

“ _You know_ _ nothing of what I feel!” _

 

“ _I know everything! Everything you're too snivel-nosed to do! You're not my sister! You are my enemy!”_

 

She ran from me after that, swift as a deer. No more I'd see of her, at least when not asleep. Even in my dreams, still she runs. No where I can follow her to. I wish I could fly so then perhaps I could see her, run though she might.

 

People are always running it seems, as, I too, had to do. Not of my choosing. Someone wanted to keep me alive. Why? I am only seen as a body; privates for other privates to slice into. I just want to care again. I simply want love. I was promised I would have devotion more than once.

 

Do men who keep their promises exist? I know not. My dreams of such hopes never cease though I've come nose-to-nose with the opposing end. Lord Petyr was correct. I should become a septa. At least as a septa, I would be left alone to serve, pray, and dream. Something wonderful has to come of being good and kind, I know it in my heart, I care not if it _is_ broken!

 

Let me dream on...

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 

**Awakenings**

 

The first thing she knows is that she feels like she hasn't slept in her entire life. The second is she is covered in palm leaves and has a weight on her chest. A warm, mildly heavy weight. She feels a very soft stirring of air to her right side. She shifts her eyes. Black, curly, and bristled hair is near. And ruined skin, peeling, chafing. A hooking nose. _The man who calls himself the dog!_

 

She gasps, swallows. Her throat and mouth are curiously moist.

 

_Shifting, stirring. A rough grunt._

 

“ _Uh—wh--”_

 

“ _Ah--”_

 

The huge frame fills her vision as it pulls itself upright. She can't help but notice it is barren of all clothes, but is most certainly _not_ barren of hairs.

 

And now, two eyes blink and focus straight on her. They appear black in the low light.

 

“The bird is awake,” the voice grinds. “She surprises the Dog.”

 

“I've awakened _you_ ,” she says, a touch of embarrassment in her tone.

 

“Many, many times, aye,” the man grates. “What do you want? You need to take a piss? I do. Mind waiting? Won't be long.”

 

He turns away in a snap, and moves deeper into the darkening catacombs.

 

She tries to roll to rise. Her body aches. She whimpers. To her horror, she realizes she is barren as well. She struggles to move again and grunts in pain.

 

“Eh! What's all this, girl? Leave ya 'lone fer one minute and ya tangle up yer nest,” he barked, scoffing. Hands close around her waist and scoop her up from above.

 

She yelps.

 

“Please put me down,” she begs. Shame colors her skin.

 

“Not yet,” he returns.

 

He begins poking her, much to her shock. Her forehead, her temples, down her ribs... _her ticklish toes_...

 

She eeks out a giggle—so girlish in sound. A trickle of urine leeks out.

 

_A sigh._

 

“Come,” says the man tonelessly, cradling the babe in his arms.

 

“Where are you taking me?”

 

He doesn't answer. He trudges on then puts her down, but keeps supporting her.

 

There is a crevice in a stone formation. She gulps. He stares.

 

“Go on, bird. Finish it up.”

 

“Finish what?” she asks, afraid of the answer.

 

“Fuck, pissing, child! Are you _that_ stupid?”

 

“ _No, I'm not, I--”_

 

“Can't stand a _dog watching?!”_

 

“ _Yes!”_

 

The truth came out wide-eyed and aghast. The man glowers, darkness woven with gall.

 

“ _Don't care. You're weak. Piss now or hold 'til your gizzard blows!”_

 

Strangely enough, the stream comes. She feels disgusting, like a farm animal. Though she isn't paying any mind, the man twitches a peculiar half grin and nearly chortles.

 

He carries her to the pool spring, and readies to clean her privates; she squeaks.

 

“Pfft _, you mouse!_ It's nuthin' I've not dous'd before.”

 

The child simply stands stone still, allowing the water to be scooped up and splashed on her unmentionables.

 

“I am _weak,_ I know. Arry always told me so.”

 

“Who the fuck is Arry?”

 

“My sister.”

 

He pauses, frowning. His face twitches. He thinks, something he scarcely does anymore.

 

“Well, her name's Arya. She was named for one of our great grand's, or I hear,” she prattles. “But we called her 'Arry'.”

 

“ _We?_ The bird has a family? How did she fly out here alone?”

 

“I didn't. I came with a friend. But he died...”

 

“ _Died?”_

 

“Yes,” she said flatly. “He drowned.”

 

His eyes drop at this. The tip of his tongue peaks out, licking his lower lip. He overwhelmingly feels the urge to bite himself if it might relieve his agitation. But it would surely upset the child, and would only half abate such prickling thorns in his craw.

 

During their silent thoughts, she becomes curious. Why is he wiping her down with palm leaves? Why does he take the time to clean her? Why the sudden change toward her? It didn't quite make sense.

 

“Don't you hate me?” she inquires pointedly, confusion all too plain.

 

“Don't _like_ anyone,” the man who calls himself a dog says.

 

“Why _bother with me, then?_ Your disgust is plain.”

 

He scoffs, and half laughs.

 

“ _I'm the dog. You are not._ _You_ are a peeping chick!”

 

“A chick?! I'll have you know I'm 10 and 3!”

 

“An older fledgling chick, then! Not much diff'ur'nt!”

 

“You're _horrid!”_

 

“ _I'm honest. It's the_ _world_ _that's horrid!”_

 

Her chin wrinkles, and her lips purse. Her eyes widen, alert, challenging. She cocks her head.

 

“Perhaps, but does it always have to be? Might it not alter? I mean, if people try their best to make it so?”

 

The man blinks, stops for a beat. To him, she knows nothing of the real nature of anything. Who does this newborn babe think she is to bleedin' say this?!

 

“Did ya come from a bloody fairy story? Ya spinnin' one of yer own, eh? How would you have the world, then? All fairies and birds and rabbits? Dogs and cats gettin' on?”

 

“You do _ love _ to mock, don't you, not-a-sir?”

 

An outright guffaw and cough resounds from him this time _._

 

“ _What a fucking riot you are, girl! More fun than good wine and a whore,”_ he pants out, rolling.

 

She rolls her eyes and sighs, deciding to keep her mouth shut. She knows she rather dislikes him now if he takes delight in laughing at her beliefs and ideals.

 

Silence builds up between them. The giant beast moves away suddenly. He comes back, bearing her pitcher, which is filled with water and places it close to her.

 

He gazes openly at her, eyes studying, searching, almost probing with wonder. He quickly licks his upper lip, then taps his ear. He sniffs.

 

She doesn't return the open attention. She keeps her eyes elsewhere and low. Her head is back and inert. She is quiet.

 

He is moving again; this time he brings back fruits...and... _oh, goodness._..large fish. He lays it before her in a line, adjacent to the water. He backs up, giving space. He looks back at her; he waits. His eyes are large, twitching about. He seems to grow anxious, and starts tugging his ear. His mouth twists. He licks his lips once more, always lightning quick in doing so.

 

He grabs an apple of pine, tearing off a chuck. Kneeling close, he extends his lengthy arm and wide palm, instructing:

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

She turns her face away.

 

“Not hungry, then. Is the little one thirsty?” he inquires, all seriousness.

 

“No, thank you, _she_ is not,” she murmurs lifelessly.

 

“She does not chirp her normal song. Is she not feeling righ'? What's the matter?”

 

The girl resumes her mute ways. The man who calls himself a dog becomes frustratingly tense. It is palpable in the air, coiling. She silently swallows her nervousness in a fraction.

 

_SCARS. That is what now overwhelms her entire vision. She can't stop herself. She flinches and instantly crumbles into sobs. She is so sure they hurt him still. She can feel the depth of the excruciating pain._

 

He can't stop himself. He threads his tree trunk arms around her waist, bringing her up against his lower neck and upper chest. He exhales a shaky breath against her brow.

 

“Here goes the little bird again, weepin' her'self sick! Is it so bad still? Surely not, now tha' she's awake, hmm?”

 

The girl freezes, gasps. One desirable thing happens—she does not cry anymore. But that's the only one thing. Now she screams. He drops her. He disappears into the darker ends of the cave, totally silent.

 

There would be no sleeping for either of them on this night, and neither would either dare to dream.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, their watch begins!

 

**Chapter 10**

 

**The Lady and**

**The Dog**

 

 

_Oh, Seven Heavens! What's happened?_

 

This is all I can think, pacing in my head. This thought circles as an animal, as a _wolf..._ as a...

 

He... _he..._ what...when did he...??? _He has done so much more than touch me! He....swaddled me??? Am I his infant child??? NO! I AM a LADY, or I was...I was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, first daughter of Eddard Stark, and Catelyn Tully. I am 10 and 3, not 1 and nothing!_

 

He... _dropped me. Oh, dear. I can hardly move. I am so weak; I do not recall why._

 

I can hear in my mind's ear Ser Arry's mocking laughter! _Bother, bosh!_

 

I _will not cry, I will not sob! I refuse! Daft princesses with pointy noses cry! I am not those! I am nothing of the kind!_ I am a Stark, and a Tully. Duty and honor first. But where was the honor in tears or screams? Ah, I humiliate my poor mother. She would disapprove of my rash behavior, so terrible and infantile...

 

 

The man who calls himself a dog must think so little of me. He called me a child, I think. Yes, he did. And what a child I act! He surely wants naught to do with me now. I am lost for the moment, my strength—oh, would I call it such?—tapped out!

 

I crawl, degree by degree, to my pitcher, so full. He has to have refilled it as I know I do not fill containers so high—too much risk for spillage. I know he is certainly no gentleman, but a warrior, blunt as a rusted blade. Ay, so it goes I find another bold peck! The Gods have their fun play—I hope they like their watch as they witness a maid crawl as a worm in the soil! Yea, dignity, cheers! I shall drink deeply of you!

 

I reach the handle. I grasp it too tightly. I tremble. Water flies in drops. I lick after them, down the stiffened sides. My tongue is dully flesh grey. I realize I am ill, and quite so.

 

_What has happened? Where have I been? What have I done?_

 

* * *

 

 

  _Shit, shit, shit! What happens now, you mutt?! You acted without thinkin', ya did! Cock and bleedin' balls! Ya can't do naught righ'! E'er 'thing you touch dies!_

 

_F U C K!!!_

 

 _Don't bite..._ the dog thinks to himself, sighing quietly. _No, don't bite._ _Lie down. Stop. Stay away for now._

 

_Why did she cry? What did dog do? Dog only tried to quell her. So many tears make dog so sad. No more, no more. Stop. Now, stop._

 

_Why...did she...look...at...dog's face...like thus? What did, does she...think???! Or did she...not...???_

 

_Oi, she really looked, did she not?! Can't bear to look at a mutt! N'ither can it, bird. Ha, ha, as it likes not, too. Ha, ha!_

 

_Bad dog, you bad dog! She...will need..help. Soon, too. Again. And again. The little peep is scared. Blush, blush. Screech, screech! Dog's fault!_

 

_Lie back now, low. Sand is soft. Eyes close. All dark. All gone now. Peace for now. Now quiet._

 

_Not quiet! Why not? Listen, hear little coos. Peep, peep! Coming close. Coming closer! What...???_

 

“Dog,” he hears a squeaky cheep.

 

Why does she crawl to a dog?

 

“ _Please_ , Dog,” she practically sings now. “Will you forgive me for not being a go-..a good lady?”

 

She still crawls along, so weak. Poor, broken, baby bird. The Dog can take no more. He groans, reaching out, extending much to paw her swiftly off, up, to.

 

“ _Babe...”_ he chokes out the sound. “ _So small. Here, bird. Dog helps you come to it.”_

 

He holds her away from his face, carefully turns one side away.

 

She rather boldly taps his soft cheek. Both are struck by the softness extending each way. Her eyes are large...and so curiously absorbed, soaking the sight of her... _companion_ straight in.

 

“Hello,” she chirps, warmth in her tone.

 

It is the first time he smiles while she is watching.

 

She finds herself wishing, funnily enough, that this odd, upturned expression doesn't hide from her sight again.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 

**The Birdcage,**

 

**or,**

 

**The Bird's Cage**

 

“No, please, you must wait,” she squeaks in a desperate beseech.

 

The Dog scoffs, and lines on the softer side of his face twist into plain sight.

 

“Girl, have to go hunt. Can't take ya with m'. Have to get air, too. An' wat'r.”

 

He stares, annoyed. The child grates his stone in many, many ways.

 

She pouts. She is either angry or sad. Could be both. Oh, fuck...

 

“The bird begs the dog to piss on her? All over??? Huh, it knows better! No! Won't.”

 

Her eyes widen. Doll's eyes. Guilt and shame tussle in them.

 

The Dog bypasses the little lady and strides on, a soldier, a scavenger. Now, to find a tree...

 

 

* * *

 

 He had fetched her other things as she asked; straight away, too. Her needles, her cloths, her embroidery pieces. He had to throw the rest of her fruits away as they were no longer good. But...where was the braid??? She couldn't have somehow lost it! It was with her other bobbins, threads, and beads and those were all here, every last one. She would have to inquire about the missing token whenever the “Dog” man returned from his _hunt._ Ohh, that sounded gruesome and barbaric, even for a warrior who calls himself a canine!

 

How to cure this boredom, how to occupy oneself best in an indefinite situation; that's the thing, isn't it?

 

Ah, an idea enters her head! She manages to wiggle along to partially sunlit sand—the whiter, prettier type. She begins to trace her fingers in patterns, circles and edges. She is quite skilled at fingering shapes of all sorts. Up, down, over, jagged, half moon, diamond, ropes, waves...

 

She hums as she traces and sketches, is entirely enveloped in a world of her maidenly muse and musings. She imagines what her wayward companion does while on his quest. Does he, in fact, relieve himself on trees or in shrubbery? Does he bite those who make him cross? Ha, likely he did, indeed! How droll!

 

She could not figure why he reached for her in the week past; only that he likely viewed her as a weakling stray baby animal of some fluffy or fuzzy sort. He appeared to be the queerest mixture of stubbornness marred with docility—in every way, a paradoxical creature.

 

In spite of what he said, he _did hurt_ her: with his words; with almost everything he would lance out. Poor sod must've had a very cruel life with wicked parents who evidently beat and even... _scorched him_. Their own son! It was too awful to imagine let alone accept as the truth! But she knew as her truth that she was beaten for amusement and ravaged for being her sex.

 

Had he once been a handsome boy? Perhaps. She could well picture a young boy underfoot helping a woman with washing tunics and dresses in hopes of receiving a kind word of thanks, a sweet look of approval. A smile.

 

 _Father would've accepted him,_ she thought. _He would've given him a proper name, too._ Something for someone brave, gentle and strong. Her father took Theon in; Theon was another member of the family—every bit as good as a blood Stark. And he had even allowed Jon a place at the table and in on some events. Father could find something great in everyone before they even knew what greatness they had in themselves. Tragically, he had died for such principles and gifts.

 

Mother...mother would've been wary at first. Disapproving and scolding at such a stinging mouth. But, eventually, she would've seen his loyal ways, his want to aid and the desire to win her favor. And who is not swayed by a soul who is readily honest? In the end, she'd be won.

 

He would stray, but wouldn't run to disappear as Arry did. He would return for meals, kind words, encouragement, and the promise of a family who favored his unusual grin. He would care for her young brother's, lifting them high so they might pick apples off the nearby orchard trees.

 

And she? What would she do with him in such a circumstance? She'd sew the frequent tears in his tunics, breeches, and any other cloth he seemed to be constantly ripping and tossing aside. She would hold him on his bad days when others were mean to him and would jeer at his scars. If he'd let her, she would lay a hand on his face. That would make him feel better—it _ would _—and he'd smile and hold her in return.

 

She sighed at her imagination dancing its waltz with her head. No, those dreams could never come true. Her father, mother, and oldest brother Robb were dead, her sister gone, her little brothers missing. Her body was beaten, her maiden parts stolen raw. And the man was burned—Gods knew what else happened his way!

 

Yet..

 

They had both survived. They yet breathe, eat, talk, sleep, move—a dozen other actions more.

 

She looks down. Her drawing is nearly complete. She traces four words at its base to further emphasize its intentions:

 

TO BRING YOU JOY!

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 

**Wild for to Hold**

 

 _Piss!_ The Dog on his hunt falls out of a tree he poorly chooses. He narrowly avoids severely hitting his head. Instinct threw him to tuck it inward at the last pin of the moment. Pfft, why did the girl like these apple of pines so bleedin' much?! Three would have to be enough.

 

He anticipates the day when he'll bring her along; then he would at least have one less reason he might pummel to the ground as a cannon ball. What he would give for a sip of dark wine! He tore a bit at his claws to calm himself; to lessen the pain felt in his skull.

 

Though, truly, what was one more crack in the head? He receives blows, cracks, stabs, punches all his life. He remembers in detail every last one. Not always the dealer, but forever the pain. And, thus far, he manages to stand again, not always wanting to.

 

“ _A dog is still a dog though it walks on its hind legs,”_ his tormentor taunts in his cracking head.

 

The Dog fishes, catching few fish this time out. Food is going to be low. She would be hungry. She would cry more. At least it kept raining so there would be water. It would keep her alive, but only just a while longer.

 

She has such a pouty mouth. A sniffling beak, and two of the clearest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Those made him sear as much as he wants his tormentor dead. As he longs to deal Death, so he hungers to keep those twin souls alight, looking.

 

All around, he views water, he smells salt. No other life but the brush, the fish, the gulls, and the little bird. And he? He is dead. He died many times over since the tick of his birth, he reckons. He simply died too many times to ever truly be killed; if such a moment comes, he hopes it would allow him sleep. But he doubts too much it truly would.

 

Thinking once more—what a bad nuisance of late—he wonders what is the reason the child pleaded him not to leave. She knows he is not abandoning her. He never abandoned much of anything—exceptions being his home, but that was _forced upon him._ Never has the dog left of his own will. Dogs are loyal, even when weak.

 

Only fools thought of tomorrow. He can't remember when he carefully gave time in his head to such a place called “the future”. There exists only today and in the distance limps yesterday. Today there is food and water...perhaps a little rest. Tomorrow's a fairy story little birds sing of. He laughs at the notion, shaking his cracking head.

 

He raises his sword paw in a ball, recalling he lost all forms of steel in the fucking wreck which finds him here, hunting as a wilding. It is fortunate beyond all measure he survives and knows well the need to kill. Tormentor teaches him well without ever knowing it does.

 

Paws are filled. Now to trot back. _Smell the way back, dog. Do what it does best._ _Smell for the little lady-bird. Bring her her favored apples of pine._ She would smile, she would.

 

* * *

 

She looks. She looks because she hears. _What?_ Barely there, _just there, a dot of a sound._ Should she be frightened? Noises like this were questionable at best. But who else could know where she is? No one but one crossed her mind, and the thought gentles her sharpening senses: it has to be the man who calls himself a dog!

 

 

She gasps. She gasps because a giant foot crushes through her intended gift. All but the four words are in ruins. She flushes deep red. She can feel this without needing to see this, of course. Tears blur her vision as a wide darkness enters.

 

She hears clumps in the sand. Mumbling growls. She feels touch clasp her shoulders. She can only think to blubber one word:

 

“Sorry!”

 

* * *

 

 

  _What?_ This is quite the unexpected reaction, even though it's all he ever seems to see her do!

 

“No,” he hears her cough.

 

He _hurts now seeing her in this state. _ He drops his paws and the sword one swipes a tear off her beak. The dog lowers his head, looking up, hoping to catch sight of those souls. She tightly closes them. He doesn't like this at all.

 

“ _Stop. Tell me, tell me what makes you weep so, girl. Did you think it would leave and not come back once the hunt is done? Well, the little bird thinks badly of a dog! Is this so? Is it?!” _

 

The Dog gruffly grinds this out, provoked.

 

The girl _purples_ now, a vision he wishes to unsee as if this was logical. But she does open her souls. They look as though they have unwillingly seen a bloodbath of slain kittens: _horrified._

 

“ _Oh, heavens, no! I--”_ she sputters a cough, two-- “ _pardon me--”_ she heaves a breath in, out and begins to recompose her colors-- “I-- I made you—I fingered a picture for you—and--" she clears her throat—impossibly graceful while coughing up _phlegm-- “well, it's damaged now, see?”_

 

The girl gestures with a wing tip markings in the sand beneath-- curves, lines, dots. She drops on all fours, crawling before these lines. It makes little sense.

 

She points.

 

“Here is a daisy, I made a chain of them, like in the fields I remember. Here is a ray of sunlight to touch it. Here is a smile—or half of it.”

 

The Dog holds out a front leg to stop her ramblings. _What???_ _She's scribbled what, now?!_

 

“Ssst! _What's this? Down here? What are these lines?”_

 

“Ah, letters, sir—I mean—words. For you.”

 

“Letters??? You can _scribe, child? Who are you? A high-born?”_

 

She freezes, something like dread passing over her expressions.

 

“ _You know?”_ she eeks, shaking.

 

“Only enough,” he replies, shaken, too, though he doesn't let it show.

 

“ _How much is enough?”_

 

Now she squawks. _Lovely._

 

“Enough to know you're hiding something.”

 

“Would you--” she halts, petrified. She begins again, “You—won't—hurt—me?”

 

These words freeze his blood. What, in all the realms, known and unknown could possibly _make_ a dog like him _want_ to _hurt_ an innocent little bird? Nothing, no force of _his will._

 

“Look at me,” he commands, taking her chin. Perusing her face, seeing the fear, the quivering uncertainty, but also the newborn lamb, able to to trust and accept; he gives his second vow: I—won't—hurt—you!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

With a brush to her chin, she knows her first taste of **the Second Heaven: Security Given.**

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

 

**The Little Bird Sings Her Song**

**(Un)Gladly**

 

“Do not think unkind thoughts of me,” she began, dipping her head, her chin dimpling. “I am sorry, Dog—this is h...”

 

She flinches, fighting emotions.

 

The other drops to his knees, immediately consenting her time without a word. He longs to touch a hand or a cheek, but restrains his paws from reaching out; his eyes, however, emote this for him without his permission. He mentally kicks himself for allowing such a desire to show.

 

“Tell dog—tell 'im wha—t... _what_ to do, little bird,” he stammers out solemnly. “Will you? Will you bid it if he allows you to?”

 

Shock passes through her. What is he _doing?_ Who is _she to suddenly_ hold any kind of say over his actions? She is a fugitive—a girl no one knows anymore. She gave up her rank for her continuing existence. And she is only 10 and 3. And he _never listened to her, besides!_ Why in the lands would he want to start now? It was all perplexing!

 

He paces, needing something to do. 1, 2, 3, 4. _Back around to. Check._ _No sign. 1, 2, 3, 4. Check. Repeat. A sign? Oh, hells!_

 

“Don't _like_ to be _useless,_ bird! Chirp – you favor it!”

 

“Stop, _please! I can't!”_

 

The soldier halts at once standing straight, full, intimidating height and breadth. The little lady's lips quiver.

 

He kneels once more before her, paw seeking her chin, stopping just short of touching it, flexing out his claws, letting them awkwardly fall.

 

“Why not?' he questions, a trace pitifully.

 

The man Dog looks queerly _unhappy_ to her now. It is heartbreaking. She has never seen him so plainly disappointed. How could this be? Why would he genuinely want her, who he regarded as a _child_ to order him around? He was no maid servant—no child's nan!

 

“I'm a—a _ girl _!”

 

He snorts, rolling his eyes.

 

“I _know you weren't born with a cock!_ _I don't give any shits about that! I've served boys half your age already._ _F_ _uck that, too!”_ he grumbles, unconvinced by her reasoning.

 

“Served?” she asks, in awe. “You've been a...a servant?”

 

The dog's body hunches in submission, half bowing.

 

“Aye, young lady. Many times. All sorts o' young nobles.”

 

“My,” she returns, going a tad pink.

 

He blinks at the change in her pallor uneasily. He was only a dog, not a lion.

 

“How did you serve them?”

 

“As well as ' could. Looked out for 'em. Killed those tha' d' do 'em wrong. Much o' just lookin' out. But do know lots o' ways t' kill.”

 

She grimaces, as she can picture the harm, the blood, him bathed in it, and happily so.

 

“How many have you had to kill?”

 

She is afraid of his answer. Afraid of the pride that glows through him at this turn of discussion.

 

“Don't count. Don't need to. Dog kills for need or pay.”

 

She meets his eyes. They shine with emotion.

 

“Only?” she asks softly.

 

His mouth twitches, and lines groove his softer face. He hesitates. He lets her see him do this.

 

“Killing gives m' life, child. Killing's the sweetest thing there is,” he answers lowly, avoiding those souls.

 

“You don't mean it--”

 

“I DO,” he howls, startling the girl, causing her to shiver. Just like a real bird.

 

“My—my name is Sansa,” she says hoarsely. “Sansa Stark. Call me by my name.”

 

Her mouth is a straight line, like a dirk. He has never seen her so resolute. It unnerves him.

 

“Sansa...Sansa fucking _Stark_? Of House Stark, of the First Men?”

 

“You _know._ ”

 

“I know _ enough. _ _Blazin' piss...”_

 

A single tear trickles down. He dabs it away, taking his cue.

 

“Now that you know, will you _kill_ me?”

 

The large one inwardly cringes. Where is this fucking coming from? Has she been hexed by a hag?

 

“The Dog is a killer, mean, aye, but _not_ a tormentor,” he professes, aghast. He shuts his eyes, needing to gather himself after such a blow.

 

“Not even if I told you to kill me?” she huffs, bordering on genuine anger or madness, or both.

 

He howls again; it is a dark, awful wail. He reaches behind her and seizes a pinch of her hind neck, lifting her from the sandy floor.

 

“ _Fuck you, you cunting child,” _ he hisses in her face. “ _ I hate you! You can die fine on your own.” _

 

He lets her go, dropping her without a fuss. He turns his back on her and begins to leave. He has to get away—far away, swim off, maybe.

 

When crossing the mouth of their cave shelter, he feels the butt of a soft head grazing his hip. Arms come 'round to clasp him as a belt would.

 

“You're no true killer,” he hears her croon, singing little lark that she is.

 

This is the first song anyone has ever sung for him.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The urgency of life got in the way of the timely publishing of this chapter. Hope for most that it is worth the wait. Let me know! Thanks and love!

**Chapter 14**

 

**Tears of A Dog**

 

 

 

He cries. He nearly weeps. This is unexpected. He does not turn to face her, not for the longest time. But he does not leave. He cringes.

 

At last, he turns. He is hyperventilating. His scars are horrid, tight, twisting, vicious. His teeth are showing, yellow and parts brown. He looks a monster.

 

She steps back, startling. Afraid again. Weak. A babe.

 

Tears. They are large. And they are _his._ It breaks her heart. She extends her hand which ever so softly touches his cheek. His _scarred cheek._ She doesn’t flinch; not at all.

 

“Does it hurt? When I touch there? I don’t want to hurt you,” she chirps, pulling her wingtip back a bit, unsure.

 

He moans, a painful sound. This time, she _does_ flinch, and her face falls.

 

He snaps, and pulls her face urgently up.

 

“If—you— _would—_ look--” he blubbers out. His main paw is cupping ‘round her cheek. Then, just as quickly, it is not. It is down, away.

 

“I _am sorry, Dog,”_ she peeps, so _sadly._

 

“A moment, girl, but a _moment,”_ he wags his claw at her. He rubs his face with his paws, sniffing loudly.

 

“What ails you?” she asked, concern plain in her face and tone. “Might I help?”

 

“Oi, lass, if y' could...” he trails off. He cannot find the words. It agonizes him.

 

He catches her hand, cupping it. He extends her arm gradually, pulling it toward him. He is as careful as he can possibly be. He shockingly, tentatively places it on his soft cheek. His eyes implore her not to frighten away.

 

She inhales deeply.

 

“You… _like my hand?”_

 

He blinks, his eyes roll side to side, up, down.

 

“ _No, I do not,”_ he grunts.

 

Her chin wrinkles up. Lines mark her forehead.

 

His snout bumps up against her stubby beak. It nuzzles. It puffs, lightly blowing on her face.

 

“ _No, no pouting_ , little bird. Not this time, eh? Come on, then.”

She is in his arms now—closer than ever before.

 

“All right, now, are you?” he checks, worrying at her silence. “Tell.”

 

“I…I don’t understand.”

 

“What’s there to understand?”

 

“ _You_ _…_ _tell me you hate me, that I am a stupid child, you even tell me…'_ _'fuck’_ _…_ _you yell at me, you splash me..._ and _now you_ _…_ _hold me? Want my touch? Rub your nose on my...”_

 

He growls, stopping. His eyes are black again.

 

“ _Fuck, girl,_ _you’re_ _a puking babe!_ _Can’t_ _make it plain_ _er_ _._ _N’thin’_ _to understand, see!”_

 

He begins to dandle her ever so gently, almost hesitating in such a gesture. He studies her with searching care.

 

“I'm... _not your infant!”_ she cries out, pushing way a stroking paw. “I'm a _lady!_ Or at least I was!”

 

The Dog's expression darkens. He has had--

 

“ENOUGH, YOU POUTY, SPOILED CUNT!!! I FIND YOUR WEAK BODY IN A BLEEDIN' PISSIN' STORM, I BEAT YOUR BACK AND SUCK YOUR PRISSY MOUTH TO SAVE YOUR FUCKING LIFE, I LET YOU PISS ALL OVER ME, I FEED YOU, BATHE YOU, AND CALM YOU THE FUCK DOWN SO YOU CAN SLEEP, AND _YOU'RE TELLING ME I HAVE NO RIGHT TO EVEN TOUCH YOU?!_ _WHAT A BLOODY CUNTING FUCK OF A JAPE!”_

 

He unhands her, pushing her down.

 

She isn't sobbing, surprisingly enough. She is numb. A torn doll, expressionless, powerless.

 

“Know me, then, take my body,” she tonelessly breathes in defeat. “This is want you want, do you not? I lack even a skirt to pull, so have at me. I won't blink.”

 

And the world turns to ashes, she lies before him bare her unbearable truth. All at once, he remembers her marks, her lashes, and understands the lack of control in her urinating. The teeth marks up her legs and buttocks. He saw, but he didn't _think._ He looked before, but didn't _know._

 

Again, he struggles to breathe, even though he hyperventilates. He feels as though he is bleeding internally. He _hates everyone and everything! He hates himself most for screaming out such dark unkindness at her._ He wishes to cut out his tongue if he had a blade.

 

“I…won’t _touch you again, little bird, unless you ask me to._ Or unless it protects you.”

 

“You…won’t _?”_

 

“ _Never,_ except those two condi' shuns,” he states. “Or, more like, the _one.”_

 

He whispers the last word.

 

She sighs.

 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just…the _fear_ _…_ ”

 

“ _Hush,”_ he whines. “You keep peeping when there is _no need for it!_ _Didn’t_ _ask,_ _don’t_ _explain!”_

 

“ _Must you_ _always_ _scold me for everything I say?!”_

 

“Bleedin’ fuck, _I_ _don’t_ _,_ girl! Just don’t _like knowin'_ _how much_ _you_ _suffered!_ ”

 

“You don’t care, I _know that!_ ”

 

“ _Fuck your ignorance, child!_ _You’re_ _pissin' blind!”_

 

“So, _goodness sake, edu-cate me, you_ _oaf!_ _”_

 

The giant pulls a face halfway between shock and amusement. She fires off this word like the dirtiest curse. And, maybe it is.

 

“The lady has a temper after all,” he murmurs gutturally. “It looks good on you, little bird. Still weak, but here.”

 

“What _do you want? You want something.”_

 

Now she baits him like he’s a fish. Would he take his bite of it? This happens sweetly, the opportunity for either marvelous fun, or mischief…or total failure once more. He catches himself thinking when timing is everything.

 

“Want? Ha, you ask a dangerous question, girl, for a dainty one such as ya’ are. The Dog’ll tell you. Sing, little bird. Let it hear your twitterin' voice. Will you sing for a dirty dog just once?”

 

He nears her, but never touches her, true to his words. He awkwardly stays close but is really miles away locked inside his head.

 

The child looks thoughtfully pensive. She ponders; he can see her consider much. She is a deep soul for ten and three, already living the troubles of a lifetime.

 

“What shall I sing?” she slowly inquires, earnest.

 

“She thinks it matters to a hound? It matters as much as a corpse. As lessons on holiday! Don’t fret, i'tisn't spoiled!”

 

“I…never said you were,” she meekly returns.

 

The Dog tilts his great, bushy head. He doesn’t understand the reason for her to overthink when all he asks for is one poem from her voice.

 

“ _Sing_ ,” he pleads, desperate, yet somehow gently so though the urgency is palpably tense. His eyes beg twice as much, full and sad, but with a mixture of hope in each. Now he knows he has gone too soft, but he is too foolishly sanguine to care.

 

Like an unexpected breeze came the trilling of the child’s timbre, and a lullaby came forth:

 

_Sleep my darling, on my bosom,_

_Harm will never come to you;_

_Mother’s arms enfold you safely,_

_Mother’s heart is ever true._

_As you sleep there’s naught to scare you,_

_Naught to wake you from your rest;_

_Close those eyelids, little angel,_

_Sleep upon your mother’s breast._

_Sleep, my darling, night is falling_

_Rest in slumber sound and deep;_

_I would know why you are smiling,_

_Smiling sweetly as you sleep!_

_Do you see the angels smiling_

_As they see your rosy rest,_

_So that you must smile an answer_

_As you slumber on my breast?_

_Don’t be frightened, it’s a leaflet_

_Tapping, tapping on the door;_

_Don’t be frightened, ‘twas a wavelet_

_Sighing, sighing on the shore._

_Slumber, slumber, naught can hurt you,_

_Nothing bring you harm or fright;_

_Slumber, darling, smiling sweetly_

_At those angels robed in white..._

* * *

 

There are tears streaming down his bearded face. The sight, even in such low light, astounds her. She reaches out to touch the droplets just to make sure what she sees is real. He balks her hand, and she frowns.

He stares at her in enthrallment, but his expression is abstruse.The girl cradles the palm of her hand to the apple of his softer cheek; she feels the wetness there a moment. In a motherly swipe, the wetness is gone.

“It’s all right now,” she assures her large, infelicitous companion.The Dog unconsciously nods to her in response.

“Little bird,” he purls, as if in prayer.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, another time, life's matters have prevented me from updating this tale in a more timely manner. We'll see if this chapter is worth the extra wait and time or not! Comment, leave feedback and add kudos if you so wish to, sweet loves! Thanks so kindly to each one of you! <3

**Chapter 15**

 

**Le Petit Mort**

 

 

I don’t know precisely when this started, but the man who calls himself “Dog” and I are—dare I call it?--getting on better? I won’t call it a friendship, for in such a state, things must be friendly between two or more souls, and, well, he is uneasy at best.

 

Neither do I know or can foretell how long this will last. Things are moment to moment, shaky and then not so much. Food is getting more scarce. I am almost as fully strong as I’ve ever been, and “Dog” says he will take me with him as he gathers and fishes the next time.

 

I smile; I can’t help it. I dislike all the isolation I’ve had to endure of late.

 

He laughs when he sees my face—it is a clumsy, brash sound, like metal crashing. He murmurs a sound, a word perhaps. He mumbles _so very much!_

 

He later startles me with a new request:

 

“Will the little bird chirp for me another time? She might if he takes her out with her on the morrow, mmm? Dog will allow her to do as she pleases as long as she keeps close. Will she agree to this?”

 

I swallow, taken aback. What is he asking of me? I must make sure.

 

“What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean when you want me to “chirp” as you call it. And why would you let me do as I please?”

 

“Questions, an’ more of ‘em, silly girl! Yes or no? Say, tell, _breathe.”_

 

“No, answer me first, I don’t know--”

 

“ _\--_ _what Dog means?”_

 

He finishes crassly for me. He is holding back more anger; I am thinking it may be for my sake. It is the queerest reasoning that now he _checks himself and is limiting parts of his soul._ Should I be flattered or terrified of this wall?

 

“I’m sorry,” I yelp, blushing.

 

“ _Stop. Stop with the sorries. Fuck 'em! Listen, eh?_ _Trying—_ _badly, to make a pact with you. I want—no, I ask—for, maybe—a—another song._ _If I am, in your eyes, a good dog, might you twitter again?”_

 

He shows me his piece of himself again, the one that begs for mercy and kindness. The little boy child. He is only still a boy, learning—trying.

 

“I would gladly sing for you,” I say, genuinely, “whether you are good or not. You saved my life, you feed me and care for me. There is good in you always.”

 

“Sansa,” he shutters.

 

He…uses..my…first…name…

* * *

* * *

 

_Lovely girl, too bright for any words._

 

The primal, great and terrible instinct to _glut on_ _her is boiling inside. To have her utterly, fully…he knew he would never be able to get enough of her if he allowed himself no control. She would be broken, she would cry. She would be dead. And so would he once she stopped living._

 

_She is too precious to ever mark as a Dog's._

 

Clearly dawns a new feeling within the core of him: he longs. He awakens in jolts. He _**cherishes**_ her, and, poignantly, she must never truly know the full extent of such emotions, for even he himself did not yet know how deep they might run. But he would take care of her for as long as she allows him such a task; if that meant until his last breath, he’d gladly carry her across these thresholds as a groom does his bride. In this way, she could be his without ever having to cause her pain the way love often does.

 

“Come,” he scrapes, beckoning, diffidently holding out a paw, an invitation. The little lady tilts her brow, and rises. She choses not to take his paw, but makes sure to walk along side. He keeps an eye on her gait should she falter or tire.

 

“The weather is very nice out,” she comments, searching for something to fill the silence while they are both in motion. She notices his stare is changing toward her. She isn't confident she cares for this shift in expression and behavior. His eyes seem larger, his senses sharper. In much better light, he looks even more a boulder. He seems more...curious. His look asks one thousand or more voiceless questions; all for her, apparently.

 

“Why do you stare at me so?” she manages, dipping her head downward.

 

“Should I stare at the sand instead? Would that please you more?” he counters, blinking and running a hand through his wiry curls.

 

“Pardons,” she murmurs somewhat gracefully. “I only wondered.”

 

The man-dog ticks his tongue. The two of them are beneath the fruit trees. She didn't wait to start climbing. Her companion became automatically attentive and alert.

 

“Oi, there! Not so fast, little one! Y' can't fly, y' know!”

 

She giggles effervescently. It is a pretty peal. He can't stop himself from an awkward smile; such that his face allows him to do so with effort.

 

“Yes, I can,” she playfully insists, anchoring herself and gathering her target.

 

“Catch, Dog,” she orders, dropping an apple of pine, then another.

 

He does, of course, with no effort.

 

“Catch me!” she abruptly exclaims, letting go of the trunk, free-falling. He pivots and twirls in a swordsman’s suave grace, and manages to basket her in a firm cradle. She giggles once more, beaming back at him, eyes glittering.

 

He shivers a deep sigh, mouth half open. He cranes his neck slightly, nearly kissing noses with her. She gasps. He draws back his snout sheepishly.

 

“Your eyes,” she begins in wonder. “They're the color of a skipping stone. I think they're pretty!”

This declaration most certainly caught him by the tail. The soft side of his face colors; his eyes twitch away as a fish does through water. He sets her down directly after in bewilderment. What a curiosity she continued to be, arousing strange stirrings in him further. He wants to keep close, but still is mindful he must consider her comfort first.

 

He doesn't like staring at the girl, but he can't seem to look away. She gives him clear focus and he is eager to yield to a most gracious, dainty mistress. He thinks of her as delicate and pretty now, like a teacup or tiny stirring spoon; perhaps the silk lining the top of a pocket to keep handkerchiefs in. He rolls his eyes mentally-- since when did he think of china and silk? _Fuck! She is anything but his!_

 

He catches her with a timid, mousy smile on her face. The girl titters elfishly. The giant grunts.

 

“Don't do _that again, stupid brat,”_ he barks, sour.

 

The unbelievable happens: she responds by sticking out her tongue fully out at him, her face defiant and full of play. She then skips away toward the shoreline and waves. He watches, anxious and annoyingly angry.

 

She is wading in water up to her calves, then to just above her knees. Her twin souls are shut. A terrible thought electrifies through his cracked head: _Can the young lady swim?_ He has no clue to help him decide on his own.

 

She is now waist deep. She pauses, and looks back, her eyes wide, sunlit, full of wonder and absorbing all around.

 

“Will you come with me?” she calls out, beseechingly. “Please, Dog. If it pleases you, come.”

 

Her expression flashes hope and angst in changing measures.

 

He coughs and spits. What is she asking? It could be many things, some which do please him much while others do _not._

 

“You're gettin'  _all wet,_ little bird; you mi' ge' ill again!”

 

“I might, but you'll help me get well, won't you?”

 

“Blazes, bonk, now _you're the horrible one!”_ he bellows, lurching toward the water and gliding up toward the child.

 

Arms encircle her tiny waist and pull her to a prickly chest. She turns in the arms to face this enigma of a creature, half man, half instinct.

 

His face softens to curiosity and he almost begins to smile. He watches her blink and hesitate. He is tingling with nerves himself. Quickly, and feather-light, she brushes her lips on his snout in a chaste little tap of a kiss. He closes his eyes and unknowingly dandles her in his thick paws. She shivers. His eyes snap open solicitously.

 

“You're cold,” he guesses, scooping her up over his shoulder. “I'll help ya get warm. Come, now, mmm?” And he hauls her out like a rescue ship. She cries out a bit, confusion surrounding her.

 

He sets her down in the cave. His face is nearly upon hers, asking questions longing to tumble out of his twisting mouth.

 

“Tell me,” he spouts. “What hurts? Where is it? What d' ya need?”

 

“Stop,” she replies, tired of the flood.

 

“But—are you not hurt? Don't need to be afraid, mistress. No.”

 

He sees her frowning and puts a long claw under her chin, tilting it upward.

 

“Look at me, shy mouse, I won't bite, I swear it,” he says in a rush, nervous.

 

“I'mnothurt,” she babbles, struck, ashamed now.

 

He pokes and prods her limbs, ticking her toes accidentally once more. She squawks her giggles uncontrollably. He sighs.

 

“The lady is impossible,” he mocks, groaning, then stopping.

 

“You _liked that, didn't you?”_

 

“Don't _like much o' nuthin'; told ya that!”_

 

“ _Except me, you mean!”_

 

She felt her chin jerk sharply up.

 

“ _What—did—you—just—say—to—me—young—lady?!”_

 

She shows him her pretty, pink tongue again. He glowers back directly at her. He circles his paw 'round her neck and easily can close it into a fist if he so choses to. He pauses carefully, deliberately. She looks him straight in the face, stone fearful.

 

“ _Now you_ _can_ _bear to look, can't you, little bird?”_ He smiles horrifically, showing all his browning teeth. “ _Your fear is now the sweetest thing the Dog has ever tasted! He laps it up. He is still so hungry, little one, even so..._ _would you like to feed him some more? He_ _ **does like you, as he likes killing!**_ ”

 

In a whirlwind of a storm, she somehow leans in, and pecks his softer cheek, so light, so heartbreakingly innocent and chaste. In two tiny brushes, she does what no other man or woman could do—she quickly disarms him which destroys his entire world. He dies a little as fully awakens something different—the shy beginnings of a man.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angst goes on, and the pair are tied to each other all the more tightly in an odd mess of a stew! Is it healthy? Hells, no! 'Course not! This isn't a bleedin' (bleep) of a fairytale!
> 
> Kudos if you like this. None if you don't! Comments if you are so inclined, even if you dislike, but please, be constructive! 'Kay? Thanks, cuddles, and love!- Celia III

**Chapter 16**

**Under A Bright Moon,**

**The Truth**

 

Can a kiss, no matter how light and chaste, awaken a broken soul? 'Til now, he gave it no thought. It both livens and slays him in the same blow. How can this be? How can one moment in a series of pain and darkness so randomly light everything as brightly as the blinding sun?

 

Yet he isn't blind; he sees too clearly—so well, it cuts him to pieces. 

 

He draws away to keep himself from depositing the girl in his lap;  this would quite possibly frighten her and he knows she doesn’t like such infantile shows of gratification. She is a lady. What do ladies favor? Surely not a kiss in return from a jaw such as his!

 

Both are silent as the sun has set; she sits just past the mouth’s entrance of their shelter, lost in her musings, sweetly humming as she gathers her sewing materials. He keeps his distance, but vigilantly surveys everything that occurs. One thousands thoughts race through his cracked head.

 

He already violated the no touching rule when the little duckling invited him in the water with her, but she didn’t seem to care he did so. He didn’t hurt her at all and didn’t touch anywhere he shouldn’t. He knows she is a naïve child between girlhood and womanhood. Her purity he gives such thought to, vowing to preserve it.

 

Even in his annoyance with her sauciness, he knew he would never hurt her. He wanted only to make her hush and listen. She did, the little doll, so scared. He was only annoyed, not truly angry, but he let it move him to a dangerous confession. Fear he loved, yes, fear led to action, but it is her considerate treatment of him which anchors his will to her. This results in the much larger motivations of his latest actions.

 

“...Lovely...knight…”

 

He shook his mange of curls, caught at inattention.

 

“What’s that, girl? What ya prattlin’ on about?”

 

“No matter,” she chirps in return.

 

“Might not be so, bu’ might be i’ does, little bird,” he interjects, drawing closer, within plain sight.

 

The behemoth looks at her directly now, intent on showing earnestness. The bird blushes as she is prone to do, and quite girlishly. He nearly smiles, but rolls his eyes to stop himself.

 

“I was just saying what a lovely night it is, is all,” she says quietly at last, giving a timid grin. Her twin souls seem to sparkle in such brilliant half moonlight.

 

“Jus’ wha’ s so lovely about it, hmm?”

 

To her ear, he sounded rather irked about the notion that a silly thing like the night could be nice. _What a grumpy troll he could be!_

 

She sighs, and he knows he must be in trouble again. He displays his forepaws, upturned for her to see.

 

He is slowly shaking his head, all submission.

 

“The dog is not angry,” he breathily clarifies, sensing her confusion. “The dog is asking. He is interested in what the little one finds lovely about the night.”

 

Her face relaxes visibly and she half smiles, still nervous. 

 

“The moon is quite full tonight,” she says, now marveling at it. “Look how it shines almost like the sun. So lovely, yes?”

 

The dog peers past to gaze at a creamy circle, and, indeed, the light is clear and crisp.

 

“Pretty, might be, but _lovely_ ….no.”

 

“Well, then what does ‘the dog’ find lovely?”

 

“Huntin’,” he says instantly.

 

She scoffs.

 

“Oh, but of course you would! At least you did not say, ‘killin’” she huffs with a breathy drawl in a nice imitation of a certain other.

 

The dog is bemused, but not the least bit amused by the mocking bird. Ha, now she is a mockingbird in a queer sense! He almost snorts a chuckle but only does so in his damaged skull.

 

“Tell me, do you know what dogs do to little mockingbirds?”

 

A curious look comes over his skipping stone eyes--one which can have hundreds of meanings. They eagerly dance in a bid to beckon her; or could this be nothing but a bluff?

 

“You...tease, sir,” she gushes, completely demure, flushing crimson.

 

“Mistress Sansa,” the hulk of an awkward man exhales tentatively. “Will you walk with me for a moment? Just a bit, not a stroll.”

 

“Sir? What is amiss?”

 

“Sansa, no. Don’t fret. Nothing’s amiss. Just come with me a moment, mmm?”

 

He gently takes her nearest claws into his. He also gets her sewing things for her. He chooses a cozy spot for them and invites her to sit facing him. He lets her tiny claws go and backs up a breadth or two so as not to crowd her. He clears his throat.

 

She looks at him worriedly. He sighs deeply and nearly crumbles to see such an expression upon her soft face.

 

“Are you so scared of this dog, little songbird? Would you always be if...if he tells you you have nothing to fear from him? If...he tells...the little bird his thoughts?”

 

He swallows audibly, and holds his head for a solid half-minute, eyes closing.

 

“Dog,” she squeaks, mystified by his words and behavior. “Something is terribly wrong! I don’t know what your thoughts could be, but you are vexed. You must calm; perhaps I might help you in some way. Shall I sing to you or tell a story?”

 

“Little bird,” he whines, a puppy again. “Shall I tell you what dogs do to little mockingbirds?”

 

_Good gracious, his eyes! What is he about to tell me?_

 

She braces herself for anything: a shove, a blow, or nothing at all. She closes her eyes….

 

….and feels his bristly cheek upon hers.

 

She nearly misses his delicate answer in her ear: _“They take care of them.”_

 

 _“_ Is that... _proper of them?”_

 

The question drips out before she understands she asks it. The bristly pressure is gone. She opens her eyes. Tears are forming fast and threaten to spill all over his half-formed face. He snuffs loudly.

 

“I..know not, _princess,”_ he struggles to say. “Life’s _not a song you can sing. Life is pain.”_

 

 _“I know,”_ she agrees empathetically, petting his burt cheek. 

 

_“Do you, mockingbird?! Or do you merely chirp empty words because ya pity a hopeless dog?”_

 

_“I was ravaged! Many a time! Leaked upon, spit upon, laughed at! Beaten! Nearly ripped apart! My sister shoved me away, called me weak, and her enemy! She ran swiftly from me, and I won’t ever see her again because she loathes me so much! My father was beheaded before my eyes while I screamed for his mercy! My mother and eldest brother were dismembered and thrown in the family river to rot! Yes, I know life is not a song, but I can still sing, because I have to!”_

 

She rises, and dashes for the shoreline. He has never seen her sprint away like thus. He spins around and trudges after her. 

 

_What the blazing fuck is she doing?!_

 

She dives in over her little head. _No, precious child! You fucking can’t!_ _Not like this!_

 

While the water bobs in and over her ears, she takes in a livid, feral, curdling _bay_! The yank she feels nearly upends her. She fights his claw-like grip to no avail. She is quickly out and shivering cold.

 

“I... _hate you, you rude, unkind brute!”_

 

She manages to stutter this out while coughing, gaging, and shivering!

 

“ _How lovely! Little puke hates me! Well, the dog doesn’t cunting care! Hate it! Slap it! Spit on it! It_ **likes you,** as he said before!”

 

He blankets her in palm leaves and off-white after wiping her down. Now, he pins her to his bare chest and the beginnings of his crop. 

 

She goes utterly slack against him. He doesn’t like this; not at all. As he holds her completely, his arms and body encompassing, another black thought dawns in his cracked head: he is nothing less than the little bird’s cage. This smashes his sawdust heart anew.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say I'm not wholly satisfied with this chapter, but things are about to dizzyingly turn inside out and explode ever so soon. Chew on that! Kudos if you like us! Love you all regardless! Even the ginormuosly apathetic crowd which glances at this story and goes, "But when do we get to the sex? I'm going to read the smuttier stories with 600+ kudos because Sandor is a real man who fires semen bullets into a girlishly polite but somehow still shamelessly slutty Sansa! THAT ROCKS! +50 more kudos for dubicon!" *pause* Oh, well! (hugs and shrugs)-Celia, the third

**Chapter 17**

**Gentle The Elder Brother,**

**For A Fading Sister**

 

 

She might as well be dead; she does not eat, she does not sleep. She scarcely draws breath. She could hear him not. Her eyes, though open, do no seeing. He does not leave her, not once, not even to relieve himself of his own waste; he simply totes her along when this occurs. She is dead. She is gone somewhere he cannot follow.

 

He cradles her as a babe, as a beloved suckling and watches for any tiny change. There is no such thing. He barks at her, he growls and grumbles, he pokes her, not to hurt, but to know. She feels it not. He gives her nearly all clean water through his jaw again, he chews up food and makes her swallow it up. But she is a living corpse.

 

Worst of all, she does not even cry or scream nor interrupt his naps when he is too exhausted to keep alert. A sword is more responsive on the ground.

 

“Little babe bird,” he croons to her, rocking her in his forelegs. “Bae, bae. Will you not sleep? Will you not eat? Will you not dream for you a better world than this? Th’ moon came to play a  fortnight ago; it did so, itchin’ to romp with you, aye. Hasn’ glow’d bright since, no, no. Not a glimm’r. An’ the dog...it...can...not...sleep….it only nibble….”

 

He pauses to daintily nuzzle her stub, cheeks, jawline….he lets go a brief whine, and barely keeps in tears. He suddenly sees a subtle patch of hair upon her scalp. It is ginger colored, just softer than a butterfly’s markings on its wings.

 

“Before i’ had to rip your robe, though’ yer ‘air was long and yello’ an’ wavy; was wrong, eh?”

 

He lies her down and quickly fetches what’s left of his only remaining tunic. He unravels it meticulously. There is a long ginger braid, still some of its shine intact. It still smelled strongly of her. He paws it up and sniffs it. He takes it and tucks it snugly behind the girl’s neck. It almost looks like a feathery scarf or lady’s wrap.

 

He can almost pretend she is alive, that she is only sleeping but for her open eyes. But sleepers breathe, and breathe deeper. She is driving him mad. She cruelly mocks him with the worst reaction imaginable--no reaction whatsoever!

 

Did she not see his change, his gentleness, his utter weakness around her? Hadn’t he been a good dog, even bloody _nice_ at times? She was still so green, too much of a child to realize growing desire. Is _that_ what it is?! Fucking lust?! Merciful, absent Gods, he is a terrible creature to crave a _child’s cunt!_ But the feelings would not abate. No, he doesn’t want any part of her body in the least! What he ached for is what she already gave him freely--her heart! Even so, this somehow is not quite enough to satisfy his gluttonous, shredded soul.

 

He picks her back up, sits and lies her carefully nested in his lap. She is even smaller now because she is weak and letting go. His lap might as well be a full bedding of scratchy straw. He pets her in winding, deliberate, finespun strokes. He is heartbroken, if he ever had a heart to begin with.

 

 

“Told ya th’ killin’ makes me feel alive. The sweetest thing there is in life. It has been. The only thing I could do worth an’thin’, see. Was all I was ever taught t’ do, girl. That, an’ run. Piss on that! Fuck it through the ground an’ back! I _hate you!!! I hate you for likin’ me! I hate you even more ‘cause I...me, and the dog, every one of it, like you! So, fuck you!!! Fuck your little life! It was never mine to share with anyhow!”_

 

He bawls like an infant, choking, spitting--away from her, of course; he gives her that courtesy out of respect. He holds back his howling screams in case they just might disturb her. Though parts of him tell him to bury her, to let her rest underneath, he cannot seem to let any part of her leave his immediate touch.

 

Another few days come and leave. The Dog and he stop eating, only drinking when they must. She is graying and pale in pallor. Breath is precious little. They both reek, but it matters not. There is not much left for either to be. He still lets her drink; he cannot deny her any minuscule sort of comfort or chance. 

 

She did not deny him any water when he thirsted those long months ago; she gave all her water up for his greedy self. She gave him her blankets, much space, respect, and even a song. Her touches moved more than once upon both sides of his...his **_mockery_** of a face. Two kisses, light, chaste and airy, graced his snout and cheek. In return, he gave an offer, and a little more time for her little life. But not his love. He does not know it, and does not know how to give it. He only knows to serve.

 

He is drawn to her pitiful lower claws, so babe-like with plumpness--the one plump thing left about her. He remembers how she laughed so hard she began to piss on him when he was only making certain she would respond. What a screech that was, just like a fucking crow’s!

 

He pinches the tiniest claw, and tugs on it like he’s plucking a berry off a bush.

 

_A little jerk pushes back--just barely._

 

 _“_ Hu-llo,” he drawls hoarsely, shaken and stirring up.

 

He now tries tugging on her next three lower claws and spontaneously puffs an exhale on them. A lonely peep taps the air ‘round her lips, and her claws crinkle farther in, away from his offending ones.

 

“Hot hells,” he murmurs, half smiling.

 

“Gunna pinch up yer claws, babe bird; have to, don’t kick it, now,” he taunts mellifluously, smiling as much as his burns allow. Before he knows himself, his thin, dog lips press up against her biggest lower claw and they smack. It is out of...bizarre happiness. And, funniest of all, he doesn’t care. He does the same on her opposite bird foot. Amazingly enough, he swears he hears a flit of a giggle. He snorts a cough.

 

“You’ll be the life of me, girl,” he mumbles through gritting teeth. “Gunna have you yet!”

 

He now is driven to eat again for the first time in 3 days--he even starts washing himself. He takes the time to bathe her thoroughly as though she were a prized dagger. He babbles silly gibberish to learn if it can possibly make her stay with him in his world a moment longer while doing so but she stops responding and turns lethargic.

 

“Will you eat for the Dog today, little bird? It wants you to. It will let you take your time. It won’t be mean--not today; it is playful for today.”

 

She makes a noise like a girlish laugh, like a cooing dove.

 

“The babe-child likes to play, too? She coos like she does,” he purls, bordering on elation or something closer to it.

 

He gathers bits of food and her pitcher of water. He opens her mouth and coaxes fruit in; she spits it out. He rolls his eyes and growls.

 

“The lady is impossible once more, eh? Spiting is not proper of _you,_ mistress. Not a bit! Shall we try sand? Plenty o’ that around! Bad girl. Behave, or no nice Dog,” he grits out, irritation plain, grinding his balled paw in the sand nearby.

 

The child gurgles a moan, coughing up phlegm, beginning to fuss and curl up. He sighs, knowing this will be one of the hardest days yet. He hums to her in a tenderer bid to calm her and wipes her raw beak. He is a poor nursemaid a second time around.

 

With the early gray of a watery morning, he lifts her off his grizzly chest, then kneels before her, humble and sad.

 

“Weak little babe, I must go to gather more food and supply. I’ll always be back; I won’t leave you long, soft one. Stay warm and don’t worry so much.”

 

Touching his nose to his favorite soft spot on her face, he “kisses” her, and he rises to his full, unforgiving height, soldiering forth. He is completely struck by the sights which overwhelm outside the world of the cave.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, to write again! Hello, my sweet, lovely readers! Again, life got in the way and more immediate demands had to come first. Reading other fan fiction stories really made me want to update again. It is my dearest hope that you'll keep enjoying this story. Kudos if your still loving it. Comments keep me going even when I'm down! The comments I received last chapter I still hold in my heart! A little love and encouragement do make a world of difference and breathe inspiration back into me! My heart beats because of and for all of you even if you don't like this story; all I truly care about is if you take the time to read it. 
> 
> The next few chapters are going to be difficult to write, again with ever changing styles, shifts, and points of view. We'll see what churns out in the coming months in the New Year of 2015!
> 
> Hugs,
> 
> Celia the IIIrd

**Chapter 18**   
  
**To Steel A Mocking Bird**   
  


 

She feels the willowy tenderness just behind her and the thought is of comfort: of lullabies, blankets, close embraces, mending scrapes and torn skirts, evening cider. It is another morning in the sleepy haze of the household. She must’ve slept too late--odd, she prides herself at rising alongside her older shadow.   
  
She fusses a whine, fighting to open her eyes.   
  
“You’ve been ill,” she hears her mother whisper matter-of-factly.  
  


A pair of hands touch her shoulders. They are masculine and large. She turns her head to look, curious.   
  
“Father…?” She calls out, hoping. Only a good man, considerate and kind, would touch her like this; not as a possession, not to cause pain, but to simply let her know she wasn’t alone. Her lips quirk into an elfin smile as she gazes upon his face.  
  
It is not her father’s face she sees, but parts of one, twisting and terrible, a protruding, hooking snout of a nose, and eyes the uncanny shade of stones perfect for skipping upon a lake.  
  
A piteous groan escapes and the eyes water. She swallows as her empathy holds fast, swaying her soul.  
  
“You are sad,” she whispers lowly.  
  
“Life is not a happy song, little bird,” he sighs.  
  
Whirls of memory pound through her, hands stripping her, tongues licking her, her sister glowering at her, the handsome boy sneering a laugh at her, the glassy stare of her father as the sword cleaves his head, over and over again in her wailing mind…  
  
“I know, I _do know!”_

She hiccups the words.  
  
The man’s mouth twitches, and the jagged scars twist impossibly more.   
  
“That’s why the little bird tried to fly away and drown in the sea--she has _no pretty little songs to sing_ about her life. Spare me. _You know nothing, Sansa Stark._ ”   
  
Her mouth drops open. He smirks, and his eyes turn sharp as blades. She scowls to match his mocking.  
  
“Spare you? I can read and scribe, mend and sew, treat wounds, scavenge, cook, and I’ve survived weeks on this island _without you_.”  
  
“A scavenger bird, then? Not just an empty headed song bird chirping stupid courtesies a septa taught you to say? Fuck me and call me a whore, this is sweeter than wine!”   
  
He bays a horrible laugh.  
  
“You’re awful. As awful as your face!”  
  
He tackles her, sends her to the floor. Surprisingly, there is no pain in the whirl of the rush. His snout is on her nose. His expression could cleave her in half.  
  
“Have I fucked you bloody? Bitten your rump like the rabid dog you think I am? Have I beat you? You think I _would?!_ The dog may be mean, but it is not a mongrel! There’s plenty worse than me, or how many cocks do you have to know to figure that out, foolish girl?! Tell me!”  
  


As awkward as his manners are, as infuriating as his mocking is, as ugly as his burns are, he did no real harm to her. He even saved her life twice over now even though she did not want to be alive.  
  
How could one man remind her of all the sadness in the lands, all the cruelty, and yet couldn’t let her suffer, and wouldn’t let her die? His words say one attitude, but his actions sing of opposing others.  
  
When he offered to serve her, take care of her, it was certainly unexpected. This still terrifies her. No one so openly pledged themselves to her without also demanding something--favors--in return. The favors taken from her often ended in pain and humiliation. This was why she refused such a deal. He would be like any other man and use her as a toy until he had his fill of her.  
  
The handsome young prince pledged to marry her. He promised her safety and security. She trusted such words. Betrayal was the bitter result. She knows better than to trust such words again.  
  
She closes her eyes, summoning her courage. The man who calls himself ‘dog’ exhales, warm breath both frightening her and charging her with newfound energy.  
  
“I know you think me weak,” she huffs. “Everyone thinks me weak.”  
  
“Fight, then. Prove you’re not. Fire burned this dog’s face, and it hurt like the seven hells, but this dog still bites.”  
  
“I _can_ fight! I can be brave like my father, Eddard, mother, Catelyn, and brother Robb!”  
  
“Hmmph,” he snorts, spit flying, tongue quickly darting out for a lick. “They’re all _dead_ , girl.”  
  
“But I’m not,” she proclaims back in a bite.  
  
“Prove it,” he dares her again; she can hear the smirk in his tone. “Open your eyes. The dead are blind! _Open your eyes AND LOOK!!!_ ”

***

  
She sees.  
  
A cocoon of palm leaves, the shabby scraps of the blanket she and the man who calls himself the dog oft pass around, and two other curious tangibles surrounds her. Inhaling, she faintly smells her mother. Tears well up without thought. Her mother’s long braid is behind her head wrapping around her neck. She thought it lost forever.  
  
Another scent mingles, a sharp contrast with the femininity of the first. This one was familiar as well. Leather and sweat. The feeling of his chest trickles through her mind, and the intensity of his eyes plays through--the way he emotes keeps changing as the tides and temperament of the sea.   
  
She knows.

 

* * *

* * *

  
His hunt to gather food for the little babe bird finds him closer to the shore; he is struck by what he sees. Though the sight is fairly distant, such cannot be mistaken. Ships, three of them, more than likely headed this way. Part of him says now he and she can return to the world of others, but he knew such a world to be unpredictable, troublesome, and painful. Would these sailors be friend or foe? He could not yet know for certain.   
  
All he could think of now is the little bird, still so sick. He had enough gatherings for the moment. She needs food, water and warmth.  
  
He turns, trotting back.  
  
He finds her; she appears to be asleep. Cradling her mummified self, he lies her on his thighs and readies to feed her water. A cooing gasp draws his attentions.  
  
“Little bird’s throat sounds dry,” he notes in a trickling whisper. “Let’s take care o’ that. Drink.”  
  
She gargles, gulps, and swallows unevenly, with a desperate sort of near recklessness. This worries the dog.  
  
“Stop that, now.”  
  
The stern dog reappears, taking charge.  
  
“Can’t have you chokin’ your little self,” the dog barks. He strokes her throat and neck in even pulls and wipes her dripping lips which are slowly returning to their usual pink.  
  
She wiggles her upper body, and starts to slide away. He catches her, and lifts her closer.   
  
“Are you a little worm now?” He spits this out, irritation crashing through.   
  
Couldn’t _anything_ ever be simple when looking after this girl?  
  
“ _No_ ,” she crisply growls. Her tone drips with defiance.   
  
“Then, tell me,” the lower, deeper registers of his voice grind out in counterpoint. “What _are you_?”  
  
Vividly cerulean irises meet his, all life and spirit drowning him in their twin depths. As if this were not answer enough, her voice smashes through fortress walls:  
  
“Look at me! _**I--AM--NOT--WEAK!**_ ”   
  


He now perfectly understands how she survived on this island alone.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the Seven! An UPDATE! 
> 
> Kudos are love and encouragement, but not required! I'm still alive, and very much so is this story! I hug you all! Feedback appreciated! Love is freely given! How are you all?

 

19.

 

**A Rebellious Bird**

 

Her tremors wake the watch dog. She is bathed in sweat and ice to the touch. Bundling her in off-white and its shirt is useless as a broken leg. Untangling from the fledgling, it retrieves water and makes certain she swallows. 

 

People are about; the dog hears and smells them in the distance. Instincts overpower all previous manners. Fear fuels its craw, the pull to act inflaming muscles. 

 

Swaddling the babe bird, dog taps her cheek with his muzzle lightly, whining a bit. 

 

“Dog must go fetch now. Be back soon.”

 

Dog rises, setting off. 

 

* * *

 

Like the shy light of newborn dawn, she wakes in feather brushes to a humming sound. As if gradually emerging through the eye of a needle being threaded, the world materializes around her. No one is in her field of vision, but there are others around. The girl can barely move, for she lacks the energy and is enclosed in wrappings to her toes.

 

“Dog,” she rasps apprehensively. 

 

How many hours or days are lost to her? Or was this some vivid dream? She nibbles on the scraps of food left on her chest, which is nearly tasteless. A sharp pain in her side later, Sansa is wet in her own urine. Wobbling, scraping, half rolling, she fights like a trapped animal to strip off the tatters. She _feels like_ an untrained whelp. Worming to the water, she attempts splashing, pawing, and rubbing her unmentionable. It stings to wipe too vigorously. The effort leaves her gasping.

 

 _Where was the man who calls himself a dog?_ Oh, but she could surely use his strength given the present state of things and even tolerate his insults for her being embarrassed. Ha, things have changed again so rapidly!

 

 _I must endure, I must endure! I am_ _not weak!_

 

 _Noise._ Not like animals about, but...deliberate, controlled. Humming. _A shout! Shouting in return._ Panic burns in her. _What in this very small world has happened?!_

 

 _Movement; hurried. Another cry--a man’s--not one she knows._ She holds her breath. Stay or run? 

 

_Gods, what to do! Think!_

 

_Fly!_

 

She crawls, degree by degree, outside the cave. She cannot form a thought—she is crushed only by the jerk to get away—away from danger, screaming, filth, anything she cannot control. Any pain, any suffering she may be able to outrun. 

 

She swallows sand that somehow ended up in her throat. A tidal wave of dizziness hits her that she feels burning in her ears. Shouts scatter.

 

Leather’s scent burns her nose, and the sickly sweet stench of blood. A hiss rattles on her neck.

 

“I fucking told you to stay in this cave, you pissing priss!” 

 

Seized, she is swung over like a bag of goods and all the distance hard-earned is ripped away. She shudders. Her wrist is clamped and bent back, and it is a miracle it doesn’t snap off straight away.

 

“Where...?” she coughs, shaking.

 

“Hush!”

 

Hooked nose in face; eyes molten, oozing venom. 

 

“Not dead,” she trickles out.

 

“I hate you,” the beast snarls.

 

“Thank you,” she retches, lolling her head.

 

She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

She smells of sickness, reeks of piss. _Bloody mad girl!_ By godless hells! 

 

This one cannot be trustworthy! What would the bird have a dog do? Bound her limbs together? Ha; a dog leashing a bird! The idea forks a need to spit and an impulse to truly restrain her—so it wouldn’t have to keep playing fucking fetch **endlessly**.  

 

Dog cleans her and cocks his head, irritation mounting. 

 

“The little bird’s bleedin’...” it sniffs.

 

It scrubs as best it can; she stiffens in counter-reaction. She is sore.

 

“Fuckin’ hurts, eh? What _doesn’t hurt ya?_ ”

 

Dog bites into its own lip and huffs—no more nice dog. She doesn’t mind nice dogs for shit! 

 

“Come on,” it grates, wrapping her up tightly in a fleecy cover, settling her close, her head brushing up against the tip of its jowl. The Dog dreams of slicing wrists, scarred flesh, and spewing trails of stinking blood--of rolling in eddies of it. Grinning in sleep, Dog was master now. 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**20.**

**The Death Blow**

 

Awake. Head. Head pain. Little, helpless bird. Will help you. Will always help you. Your smell, your sweet smell—like a babe. Makes dog want and tames wild anger, too. Torture, torture. Thirsty. No. Never that. Stop. Bad.

 

_Pet her. Be soft, or she will wake. Remember to be soft. She is soft. She is little. She is pretty. She needs. Serve her. Give her what can help her survive. Feed her, dog. See to her thirst. Keep her close. She needs._

 

Head pain! Eat. Must.

 

He puts her aside, grabs fruit, fish, and gorges with savage instinct. He licks water out of his paws which he cups. He thirsts in other ways.

 

How long has it been since it had a good taste of the gentle sex? No clear memories came. Just more thirst.

 

But, oh, not _this one! This one is a child girl—a precious, hurt, broken naïve dove. Not his to indulge in._ How could parts of it even  think of such things?

 

There is something about the way she smells—it knew the scent, and it commands dog to nearly—fuck it all— _salivate_. Dog’s base instinct is to lap at her pearl.

 

The tail twitches, pulses. It takes little to clasp it in his paw. There is no thought. It pets its tail briefly. But that does nothing to satisfy. So it would satisfy her.

 

“Little bird must be hungry, mmm?” he husks, producing a small pot out of thin air. “Yes, she would be. She hasn’t eaten much. No. Mustn’t let that stand, now.”

 

At her side, kneeling, he takes a ladle, dips it, and asks her to open her beak. She doesn’t. Dog whines a sigh.

 

“Little bird. For you. Won’t you be kind as you were so to a dog?”

 

Cupping her pale, downy cheek with the opposing paw is what it takes to open her beak, the dog learns.

 

“Little bird likes soft paws,” murmurs the servant, a bit more pleased than normally.

 

“Pretty,” the dog catches himself exhale.

 

And she is so. The word is perfect for her, like a woodsman’s ax. _No. No, it isn’t. Not quite._ Oh, fuck, what was the word for more than that? This word is long forgotten and would not come when beckoned by thoughts.

 

“You are not pretty,” left the dog’s dirty mouth.

 

This is when she becomes suddenly alert, of course.

 

* * *

 

  _What in the world...?_

 

I am pained by another declaration by this...what is he? What have I done in my fevers and void so abhorrent? I must have shown my shock plainly, for he frowns deeply, and blinks many times.

 

Oh, help me...

 

“Please,” I say, and I know I am quite pitiful.

 

“Why does the little girl beg? Why does she look so pained? She _will_ tell.”

 

He grunts this. He is so harsh! He is so wild!

 

I stare at him—his flaming eyes, his sickening scars, his hooked nose that deified laws by its very right to exist with such a damaged face... I shudder!

 

“A Dog can smell your fear, you know,” he taunts me now.

 

He inhales deeply, and so closely I can see his unpleasant... _ugh_...

 

“Do you know...what...you... You do not. Not _you, stupid girl!_ ”

 

Something breaks inside me. I suppose it is everything—all the sneers, insults, threats, dirty looks, wicked puckers of the lips—I scream. My hands fly up to his chest. I press down. He barely moves. He looks as though he means to kill me for such a weak show of dramatics. I _want him to._

 

“Not only an _ugly girl_ to you, but ugly and _stupid!”_

 

“ _Hush,”_ he hisses, hand over my mouth, livid. I feel my brow wrinkle. My vision blurs and I am suddenly flushed hot.

 

“Kill me, kill me, please,” I say, and I wish he would obey.

 

He seizes my throat, and laughs. It is not a pleasant sound at all; a grating of a stone. He bares his rotting teeth.

 

“Tempt me any more, _princess,_ and I’ll do _much worse than kill you. Believe that.”_

 

“You mongrel! You would have me bleed!”

 

“ _I_ would _fuck you bloody were I a man!”_

 

“ _You are a man, so do your worst!”_

 

He glares back at me with malicious intent oozing through. I say a silent prayer. His face—his terrible face now grazes mine—first, my nose, then down to my chin. I am taken aback by his skin flaking off in chunks, and the leathery feel of some of the scars. They are fierce to the touch, but are nothing like a razor’s edge in sharpness.

 

With a velvety flick, as a painter might stroke his work finishing the craft, his lips trace up to my brow, settling on, no doubt, the wrinkles. They are frozen for a long moment. He whimpers, and up against my skin, I feel the words more clearly than I hear them when he rasps: “And now, little mistress, comes the death blow.”

 

Puzzling to the last, I feel a wet, bashful dab of lips press upon the wrinkles etched on my face. I close my eyes, for all the world lost as a motherless kit! He is the Stranger made flesh! Odder still is that now he looks at me beseechingly, so ashamedly that one would believe he did have his way with me!

 

“I _hate you,”_ quivers his struck speech, utterly pitiable. At last, I begin to believe he means such striking words.

 

“I know.”

 

It is all I can think to say, and all I can hope he knows that I do, in fact, understand.

 

 ----------------------------

Author's note: In my mind's eye, I picture Sansa having an identical look of Lindsay Lohan in the 1998 remake of Disney's "The Parent Trap". It fits so perfectly with how I physically picture her as a girl who is so young and afraid.


	21. Chapter 21

21.

**Turning of a Screw**

 

 

Curious mouse she is. Surprising it already hasn’t gotten her killed.

 

“Hungry?” comes the guttural question.

 

She shakes her head, eyes on the ground. Fear? Shame?

 

“Little one must eat more. I have more food for her.” This comes as though stating a very simple fact, such as declaring, “The sun sets.”

 

Simple. Easy.

 

“I am not hungry, but I thank you.” She says this impossibly softly; the dog barely registers her reply.

 

“Only ‘ave one good ear, girl, an’ you’re _never_ loud but when you’re _tossl’d up.”_

 

Sneer.

 

“I said, ‘no, but I thank you,’” she repeated, louder this time. “Pardon my quietness, I did not know.”

 

She flicks her eyes up to the burnt half of his face. _The look she has. Pity. Remorse. As if she were the one to burn a pup._

 

Anger.

 

“Stop it, child. No more pity.”

 

“I am sorry,” she mumbles, further downcast.

 

“Should you be?” Dog scoffs.

 

No answer. Quiet.

 

“Little bird--”

 

“Why call me that?” she interrupts.

 

_Exhale. To tell her..._

 

 “Never mind what I call you; would you rather rabbit, cat, fish, duck?”

 

“I do not appreciate being mocked.”

 

 _Now_ she is loud. She is annoyed.

 

Dog smirks.

 

“Only chirps when she’s angry.”

 

It came as close to a giggling sound, as close as a giggle could sound from such a throat.

 

“Only nice when she’s _asleep_ ,” she countered, eyes sparkling between bitterness and mischief.

 

_Whirl!_

 

“ _Dog will gag your beak for this!”_

 

With a hiss, a dirty white scrap of cloth ‘round her mouth. Her eyes drop too low to view, but no protesting squawks are made.

 

“I am _very put out with you, child. Put out!”_

 

Stringently, the claw wags in her face. Her reddened face. _She has color now and the dog internally celebrates._

 

Turning away, rising up, he mutters rapidly, “WalkingmyselfstayorIkillyou” and he paces out, hot with tension.

 

_Fucking brat! What a cheating priss!_

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1/2 of the next chapter, because the next part is going to be murder to write...
> 
> 1:18 PM, EST or whatever: Oh. Well, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Well...technically, that's doesn't mean I told a lie, right?
> 
> Enjoy...or not. Whatever comes naturally to you, loves! I cuddle you all, even the people who dislike this story! Love all around and puppy kisses!
> 
> 10/21
> 
> Edited obvious errors in chapter, indicated changes in POV with ------- and double ----- hr tags. Should help with clarity and comprehension (at least a little bit more, maybe).

 

 

**22**

**You’re A Bad**

**Dog**

 

Soon as the air hit, _something_ wasn’t right. _Oh, fuck! Now what?_

 

_Screaming pigs! Oh, the noise! They were running!_

 

_The dead husk wasn’t where he left it. How could’ve any of those fat fucks have spotted it. Dog hid it! But obviously not well enough! Shit!_

 

_Dog gagged, clutching his stomach. Fucking no! He smelled something burning. He barely kept himself from wetly retching. No, no, no..._

 

It was all for naught, and all for a sniveling girl!

 

They know, they _know!_ _And soon, he would be hunted! He would die!_

 

All for _nothing!_

 

_Turning, running back to the cave, the safest place; still undiscovered. Dog has no where else to go._

 

 

She smells the man who calls himself “the dog” first. She knows the smell well, a scent she often encounters: vomit. His reeked of bad fish and the overly sweet, rotten apple of pine. He was _ill._ What a little, wailing tot! He has the _courtesy of a dragon_ to run to here _again_ just so he could recover from his horrid stomach troubles--

 

Oh, all Seven Heavens—he stumbles past her, crudely scraping her arm and shoulders— _pain—and--oh, no!--not her sewing yarns—_ the last of a cataract of regurgitated slop, well—farewell, pastime! She _hates him!_ Just as well, for he has made it clear in ship loads how he _hates her for existing!_

 

He is lolling now on his side, curling up, hands covering even his feather duster curls, a whining puppy!

 

Oh, for the love of everything hallowed! What a _mess!_ He was even worse a slob destroyer than her 3 and nothing babe brother, lord of the roaches!

 

_Ugh--!!!_

 

She thought of the nastiest thing she ever heard her father say and fumes out:

 

“ _ **Cockless slug puss**_!”

 

But coming from a gagged mouth, Gods knew what it truly sounded like to the man-dog around.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 Ooh, dripping cunts, dog wants to laugh, but it would stand a fair chance at choking on its own _sick._ Still too overcome with the shitty world exploding around its jape of a life! As good as over, it is. Ha, ha, ha! _He was sure she said a string of nasty words! So, a polite bird knew how to squawk pigeon shit, eh? Who’ve though it!_

 

* * *

 

 

Her shoulder jerks; she rasps, immediately trying to shove the invading ox away. It doesn’t even register to him—she should know this by now! He shudders, and is drenched in his body’s own water-life, colder by the ticks of the passing time. His eyes are dark boulders, ricocheting, but of recent death, like pinned moths or glowing pip bugs too suffocated to provide artificial lantern.

 

The man mumbles at the pitch of a honey flier and the rate of a hum bird—so rapid, she cannot distinguish any words.

 

It is only now she realizes she is slightly swaying in the circle of his arms as though a beloved infant newly cleaned after her nameday. What kind of madman was this poor creature?

 

He scrapes off the muffling cloth with quivering fingers. What a lunatic this animal is!

 

“Adogwilldieforyou...foryou...adog...ad--”

 

“Stop, please! No more! Slow, dog, I beg of you!”

 

“ _Don’t beg a dog, swi’st thin’! Bloody don’t!”_

 

He is dandling her as he once had before...when she dismissed him for such startling, heart-stopping... _ **affection**_!

 

“ _Why? What’s happened, by the Gods?!”_

 

“ _Dog’s bein’ hunted! Dog will die!”_

 

“ _What??? Die?!”_

 

“ _Dog’s killed a pi—a m—m--n--man--”_

 

“ _Man? We’re not alone???”_

 

“ _Not no more—we’re surround’d, or soon w’ be!”_

 

“ _U—Uh—why--have you killed...?”_

 

She cannot finish forming her thought out through her mouth; it simply refuses to continue, and it is suddenly barren of any moisture.

 

“ _To help you live! If I’d not’d stolen his--”_

 

“You.. _stole from a man?”_

 

“ _Had to, girl-bird, youwere dyin’”_

 

She swallows, an abruptly difficult reflex at the very moment...

 

“and, you— _you--”_

 

“ _broke’s neck--”_

 

“ _..._ _murderered...”_

 

He simply half nods, eyes closing.

 

“N—n—o...”

 

It flutters out of her, spinning its lifeless arc...

 

 

* * *

 

The little bird’s face is wrought in wrinkled, crimson _awful!..._

 

_Dog cringes up inside his soul cavity; might as well have the own paws snap its neck in the pig’s place for all the shit it’s done...but it’s D...O...N...E.._

 

_And comes a blow he does not wish to hear:_

 

“ _You’re not my friend! You’re A_ _ **BAD DOG**_ _!”_

 

Death, dealt by such kindness, becomes to a beaten mutt not the mercy he so dearly hoped for.

 

There were truly no Gods. To think, a stupid beast almost began to believe in them.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so.....nothing...
> 
> \--another short chapter.
> 
> I thought of the song Killing Me Softly while writing this one. Love it or hate it, just let me know...or don't. Well, you know the drill! Onward!
> 
> -Celia III
> 
> P.S.-Thanks, readers!

**23.**

**A Dog Bites The Hand**

 

“You _hate me, do you?!”_

 

He...is stuttering, his whole mass pulsing. He is _anger in flesh. Bitter. Livid. Miserable, and glad to show it._

 

_Oh, save me, Mother, please!_

 

He pushes me down; not hard, but not softly—there is no gentleness in his rage! He is in a cannon fit, eyes narrow, tear-filled, dead, but somehow not dead. Here comes all horror. I am afraid, I am weak! But I want this if it means death! What does it matter?--I am 3 parts dead, anyhow! I am still so very ill that I do not care much about anything.

 

“Do you _think you know why I killed that fat, squealing pig?! Well, little bird, I’ll tell you! It was in a dog’s way! Dog had to do it! Little girl doesn’t care why! Fuck you, fuck your fairy world creed! Fuck your_ _ **NOT PRETTY FACE! THEY WILL KILL ME! THEN WHAT?! THEN THOSE FAT PIGS WILL BE HAVING YOU SOON! PIGS ALWAYS DO!”**_

 

I slap his... _face_. Hard as I am able. Which, in my current state, is laughable, and of course, he laughs until he starts to choke. He spits on my cheek. _MONSTER!_

 

“ _I’ll kill you, you little dirty, whining boy!”_

 

_I gurgle this, not the least bit sorry for it!_

 

“ _Oh, PLEASE, PRINCESS! I’ll show you where the heart is!”_

 

He has the daring to _mock again._ He steals my hand—puts it on his forest of a chest, daring close to his--

 

His skin is jagged here, too. Cuts, bruises, welts, sores...

 

He speaks again, and I quiver:

 

“This is where the heart is, not-pretty! Feel that? Nothing?! That’s _how you’ve killed a man! Be fucking grateful, for lost Gods know how a dog would—you!”_

 

It is my turn to laugh, and I do it much. He glares at me—why expect less?

 

“You stupid dog! You think me a fool?! Honestly?!”

 

 

* * *

 

Her tiny claws fly over to the other side. They _do scratch. Little fucking one attempts murder with those twin lights. Godless mercy!_

 

_Frowns. Disapproval. Ha, ha, ha!_

 

_Her claws stop on the pit. Damn! Fuck her bloody in the ground!_

 

_Catches a dogs muddy stare! Weak, weak!_

 

“Wrong side, little boy! Pity you insist _I’m a stupid little girl! I feel a pounding heart!”_

 

 _It is all a dog has left_ _**not** _ _kiss her until she cannot breathe, the foolish, stubborn, not-pretty cunt! While a dog bleeds, she only laughs!_

 

“Not _very nice, girl,”_ we warn her before we seize her up. _Mad, mad little girl!_ We wipe her cheek. We have such a cunting habit of doing thus; pity, pity, that. It already got us killed. _Ha, ha!_ Ashes, ashes, and we all fall down...

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**24.**

 

**Desperado**

 

_Why don’t you come to your senses?_ A question often repeats itself. The answer never does. We are done for. We hold her very close to us now. She still does not understand why—not the way we do. She is dying—slowly, slowly. We will die now, too. All of us.

 

We cry. Dog doesn’t let itself, but we do. She is a girl. She is just a small girl. She does not understand. She holds us back up. All we can do is hold her back.

 

We have no reason to hope. But Dog lets itself hope. We tell it no, no, no. It will not listen. You are not a man, we say. Dog already knows this.

 

She looks at us. She is so afraid. We know. We want to tell her this. Dog will not let us. All we can do is hold her.

 

We show her what we mean to say. We cup her cheek. Her freckled, little cheek. 

 

“I hate you so,” Dog says. She knows what it means, we think. We sense. We rock her a little. We are not sure she understands. 

 

“Did you truly have to kill another?”

 

She says this sadly.

 

_Oh, no, no, no, little one..._

 

_not..._

 

_this..._

 

_question..._

 

_please..._

 

“Squealed...the pig squealed...saw the dog...and squealed...”

 

“But you _didn’t have to...”_

 

She does not need to finish so she does not.

 

“Did... _did. Scared. Too scared.”_

 

She looks.

 

“We must tell _them why you killed.”_

 

**WHAT? NO!!!**

 

“NO!!!!”

 

She shrinks. She almost flops from us.

 

“They might understand,” she tries, so softly.

 

We hear her say this.

 

“They _might not! They will take you away, stupid little bird!”_

 

“But they might be able to help me...and you.”

 

_ **Us? HOW?** _

 

“Too great a risk...for me and for you.”

 

She is crying now.

 

“Meaning we die here.”

 

“No. Not yet. Not _today.”_

 

“I don’t want to die. Not like this.”

 

“Not gonna let you!”

 

“You don’t _know!”_

 

“ _Neither do you, stupid bird!”_

 

This stops her for a while to come. She is tired. So is dog. We still hold her close to us. We think she might be letting us because she is this tired. Might be.

 

She is shaking. We start to worry.

 

“Sorry...” she peeps. We tell dog it needs to wrap her up. It listens and is obeying us. Dog is good for now.

 

“Thank you,” she chirps. We stroke her fuzzy, red head. Softly, yes, of course. She is a good little girl.

 

Dog puts her down as gently as it can. She doesn’t seem to mind too much. She is asleep another time a blink after.

 

Dog lies down with her, snout on her cheek. Her spotted cheek.

 

We are long past done for. We sigh our happy death. She makes us, of course. We think we know why.

 


	25. Chapter 25

 

**25.**

 

**Hebridean Lullaby**

 

 

We waken cold. She sleeps, yes. We tell dog to feed her and he does. Good, dog. She is warmer to our touch. Color is here in her features. We make sure it knows to give her water. It does give her this. She is coming on stronger. We smile. Dog does, too.

 

Hello, little bird. Can you see us, maybe? We hide—not so much anymore, do we not? We can see you play with us when you want to. You are here with us. We will help you, yes?

 

_**Cha’n fhiù mi fhéin a bhith ad dhàil.** _

_**Oh, horo hi-ri-ri cadul gu lo.** _

 

Are you dreaming? Of daisies, no doubt. And satin ribbons, and of your sister--your running sister. 

 

Our sister ran; not very fast.

 

Will you try to run away again? Dog will chase you, _**mo** _ _**ghràdh...** _

 

_Don’t run, please..._

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

“Where did you get this porridge?”

 

I am careful to ask in a friendly tone.

 

He does not seem to notice I have asked. He stares ahead, blank as a board.

 

“It is sweet,” I say, half smiling.

 

“’Course, is....”

 

_Idyll breath._

 

_Oh, bosh, and bobbles!_

 

_He reeks._

 

“ _Bobbles,”_ I murmur.

 

“ _Balls?”_ he smirks.

 

“Does it give you joy to hurt people?” I blurt, now bristling.

 

“ _No. It gives me joy to **fuck** people.”_

 

“You’ve not fucked me, sir,” I say, as though chatting about tea preferences.

 

“Not sure you’d bring me _that joy, willin’,”_ the man-dog parries.

 

_Hit._

 

I begin to boil.

 

“How do men put it? ‘Fuck yourself, then?’”

 

He coughs a spitting snort.

 

“Not for a while, not before a lady,” he grinds stiffly. He spits.

 

“You mock again, sir.”

 

“As you say, _mistress.”_

 

_I’ve had it._

 

“ _Why are you always so hateful?”_

 

_Whirl. He is in my face, eyes alight._

 

_He inhales deliberately._

 

“ _ **You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you are ‘queen’...and I’m all that stands between you and your 'beloved' king.”**_

 

_**And..then...he shows me his...his...’manhood’...before tucking it fast away. Like a body in death, the flash showed stiff.** _

 

_**I vomit.** _

 

It is dry; there is not much inside to cast out. He does not flinch at all, but only groans an impatient sigh.

 

“I _hate you, you cunt baby,” breathes dog-man, scraping my filth off me._

 

I can only shiver in response.

 

I feel a scrape on my left cheek and then thick lips give a whispering tap.

 

“I don’t get to beg you, girl, so, I...have to steal,” he mumbles so quickly that there is no end to his sentence. “This is _why I fucking loathe you...”_

 

“ _I don’t want to hear it,” I hiss through my teeth._

 

“ _You already have, rowan...”_

 

“ _YES, I DID NOT ASK TO HEAR IT!”_

 

_Arms encircle me as does a blanket after a cold bath. I don’t WANT them._

 

“ _We know, little bird,” says the man who calls himself a dog._

 

_His stone eyes barely hold in tears._

 

_As much as he saves my soul, I still never want him._

 


	26. Chapter 26

_**26.** _

 

_**Love And Hate Me, Too** _

 

_All of us cherish her. Of all of us, Dog fell hardest first. Dog loathes her for it, but it cannot and will not hurt her._

 

* * *

 

 

Come, gentle little bird. Don’t be frightened. Pretty, dainty, precious mistress. Already know you don’t like me. And, why should you? Do hurt, and all the time. But, suspect you will forgive me, as you are a kind lady. Must give you time and your space. Will you let dog close? It does like you. It killed for you, to protect your virtue. To assure no one can take you from any of the others, You shouldn’t have to leave. Will you want to stay? Why are you so shy now? Did not mean...you are sad, dunno why...nose might make you feel a bi’ better. Maybe? Try and see for you. Try...ing...mi’...be...you...will...fee...be’..ter..do ya? Look at me, shy girl...I won’t bite...pup’s honor...

 

Oh, please, forgive a shameless dog...can you look to see my shame, beautiful...? Can you see...at all...?

 

You can touch ‘er spot’ed cheek, twains...both if you like. She would like the kinness, oh, the swee’ness of you lot...

* * *

* * *

 

The honey thickness of tender mercies from this man begin again as my face is now cradling in his calloused thumb and forefinger.

 

“Look at me, not-pretty girl...Do I have to beg? Why be so...contrar-y? Hmm? Don’t I behave jus’ well enough for a look? Maybe?”

 

“You don’t think I’m a pretty girl?”

 

“Not a pretty girl at all!”

 

He says this with conviction, as a military declaration. My heart tears open as a mitten might on a frozen morning. He is such an awful monster! Just like every man is!

 

I snap up, glancing at him, livid.

 

“You must have never had any woman let alone any girl!”

 

He gurgles a growling sound.

 

“You have the r-r-right of it, Lady, not in many years!”

 

His touch is gone, predictably. He looks as though he is impaled.

 

_It starts again...all over..._

 

“And why ever not? You are a man who simply can take whatever he desires. And you do!”

 

“Then kindly...inform a _dog such as I am_ what all I have taken that I _might have de-sir-’d?”_

 

_His rage is begging to peak marvelously. I draw a sliver of a breath._

 

“You’ve _taken_ my kindness, my smiles, my joy, my happiness, my dignity, and what’s left of my soul, man who calls himself a _do-g! And I never wanted you to! You have made me do so!”_

 

_Whoosh!_

 

“ _Hapsoosh!”_

 

_He has tackled me, but astonishingly, a hand pillows my head’s crashing dive!_

 

“ **I...have...** _**nothing...to...done...nothing...I..canna...fucking cunt, girl! I ought to fuck you sideways, then bury you naked, cunt up!”** _

 

“ _ **DO IT, THEN! AT LEAST THEN I MIGHT DIE!”**_

 

“ _ **I might just swallow down your dry little wager, you little fucking swee’ tart. ‘Till your cunny swallows mine up an’ drowns my ver’ own slicky! Migh’ just be what I ‘desire’. Care to fin’ out, little puking babe?”**_

 

Nuzzling my lips with eager, impulsive vigorous fervor, he tips my mouth down a fraction. His lips graze my nose, then his nose is upon my brow in a sigh. He stutters a syllable like an accidentally plucked lute string, panting. He is stopped.

 

“Lil’...l-l-l-e...let me...keep...y...afe,” is all he barely manages.

 

“No. Not like this.”

 

He sighs through his fish stinking teeth, jerking away again.

 

_This **is how** **I** keep my self safe. I fear he’ll never learn exactly why I do this. Probably my own fault. As they say in septon school training, “Gods curse you!” _

 

_Ha, ha! Winter on a summer isle has come, indeed! Poor dog!_

 

 

* * *

 

Either I must snap her neck or somehow the dog’s. One of us will have to die at last. Can’t stand much more, canna? I smell blood! Mine or hers? Will find out soon ‘nuff.

 


	27. Chapter 27

**27.**

 

**Head Over Heels: The 5 th Hell**

 

 

...traditions I can trace against the child in your face  
Won't escape my attention...

 

You keep...distance through...touch...gentle persuasion...

 

How could I...need you this...much...???

 

Why do I...even...bother...?

 

...wasting my time...

...just wasting my...

...Time...

 

Sleep, Raven...don’t wake up...

Wake up, and you’ll feel the pain.

 

Don’t open your eyes, don’t...

 

She falls over, over, down, ashes, tumbling feet, stiff hands, the color of clay...

Tormentor push’d her, laughing away, all the way...

Sister...she can’t stay...she canna stay...

She has...fell astray...she di’nn’t pray...

...not that day, not on that day...

 

...Goodbye, little Raven...

 

I climb down the steepness, never minding my trips,

She is there, just breaths away from...

...she squeaks a plea, “Sleep, San-San!”

and in a mist, I twist her tiny, bleeding throat.

Farewell, and now fly high,

Sister who was mine.

 

...San-san says, “Good night.”

 

Her dark hair, naught e’vn a hand full, I but keep.

 

I built a fire, flame my righ’ ear, just to keep from hearin’ her beggin’ San-San for sleep.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**28.**

 

**Betrayal Is**

**An Addiction**

**or,**

**Is it**

**Simply**

**Yours?**

 

**The 6 th Hell**

 

**He gives me water, a splash in a cup. He looks at me with pity in his marble eyes. Pity is how I would word it, but perhaps it is not the perfect term for it. Marble. His eyes were marble. That is how they flowed when he moved them. But only when he did move. Them. His. Silly words. No true meaning. He has taught me supremely well there are no absolutes in any world. We’re all just grey, like wolves.**

 

“ **My _child,” he has said. He thinks he owns me. Every part. Especially all the missing ones I cannot seem to find. “He has hurt you. He will always hurt you and never will he blink for it.”_**

 

“ ** _As is my fate, my lord,” I say, without tone. I had no body then. No body. All fate. Where were the Gods and Mother Gods when I cried out for them? When I prayed in all the old ways and the new?_**

 

**He knew. He knew my Mother. My First one. He had worshipped her freely. He touches me. I tingle. I shut my eyes without trying. Without any resistance. My arm. I shoud cut it off and leave it to him. But that would leave him without. Without any rest.**

 

**He leaves me choiceless to face him. He only demands I look at him. Great Gods.**

 

“ **No. Fate can always be changed, little Cat. You must choose.”**

 

“ **I’m not my mother.”**

 

“ **And you’ll _never be! You’re more beautiful. Better...or are you worse?”_**

 

**I laugh inside. _Huh, I could be. I yet do not know._**

 

**Cruel, dazzling eyes beat me the next day, naked. How apt is my sir name? My house blood. It is crawling, spilling.**

 

**That night, he soothes my wounds with cooling gel. The other _he._ Later, at night, he slips into my bed. His body grows too quickly. He soothes me with gentle hushes. Sweet words. Sweet words, even as he claims my body. Many, slow times. **

 

**He claimed my blood first, even before I moon flowered, I think. I am not entirely sure, but I _feel too much to think well at all times._**

 

“ ** _I’ll save you, little Cat. I’m going to save you. You will come with me.”_**

 

**_Which does he mean by that?_ **

 

**_Wonder, my own, it seems, will kill me._ **

 

**He’s always known that about me.**

 

**His love truly _hates everyone. My father, my mother...and now...myself._**

 

“ ** _Lord--”_**

 

“ ** _Call_ _me by my name,”_ he ices.**

 

“ ** _When you_ call _me_ _by mine, my Lord!”_ I bite his chin as he dips to claim my lips. And, all 7 hells, _he cries out in the “white bliss”! I laugh and weep together, parts for him, but more for Father, Mother, and the “little cat” I tried too many ticks to be._ I’m sure I died on that night. Or was it early morn? Oh, Sansa, do not _dwell; I hear this again in my Father’s stern tone._**

 

**Dwell not. _Do._**

 

**He takes me to a small boat. We both row. Water all about us. Two bodies. One Water, big, endless.**

 

_**Promises are a dance he knows well and adores. He is filled with them all. I choke on them. He merely expels more, like the fiery mounts on the summer isles I read about in ancient history stories. He is fiery ashes. Dragon’s quarry. He belongs to them.** _

 

_**Both we row. He. And...I. I...** _

 

_**In twirls, he is upon my mouth’s skin. Not even he stands, he leans out. He leans out forever.** _

 

_**And I cannot get over.** _

 

_**Neither can I spread wings.** _

 

_**Only a boat for holding two.** _

 

_**Dark powder. Myself.** _

 

_**He tells me, barely stopping, that men of the 7 are here. Septons. They will bring me to the Septas. I will be trained, and become a sister. Holy, but anything but pure. Holy...ish. Like his house name, honorable as though it is, yes?** _

 

“ **You were never a Stark, Sansa.”**

 

_** This cuts me in half, by halves. ** _

 

“ **Lord--”**

 

_**I somehow stumble more into him, deeper in him.** _

 

“ _ **Your mother and I—we dallied many a time,”**_

 

“ _ **How--”**_

 

“ _ **Why do you think your mother hated the Snow bastard so bitterly?!”**_

 

“ _ **You— I am your sp—awn, as well as your child whore?!”**_

 

“ _ **My bastard daughter. You are Alayne Stone.”**_

 

“ _ **Not while I breathe!” I say, only half weeping.**_

 

_**My other half is a Lady, like my wolf. I can only think of her poor soul. Here. Now.** _

 

_**But that was...then. Not really now as I know now to be at this very moment, parts frozen in the ticks of time.** _

 

“ _ **And, sweetling, who ever told you you had to breathe?”**_

 

_**His hands are around my swan’s neck, shaking it slightly, slyly. Oh, Gods and Mothers, Maidens...** _

 

_**On defense, thoughtless, spinelessly, my toe flays out. Trips him. He hardly stops, dragging me sidelong with him. He pulls. I stiffen up. I gag. His thumbs shutter open.** _

 

“ _ **Mylittlegirl,” he spouts, diving. He, it seems, at that time, has or had let himself fall in. All else swirls unremembered in my head and I don’t know much anyway anyhow...**_

 

_**I lie on smooth, warmer sands. For hours, minutes, days...seconds. I remember only to pull up my white hood over my bald head. I had shaved it until the skin was raw.** _

 

“ _ **Anyone could know, anyone would**_ **kill you!”**

 

**He said so. Anything he said always began to become so.**

 

**I blink. The lemon seeds in my pockies. I dig for them, find them, the smooth, yet jagged little points. I feel them. I smile.**

 

“ **We sing now,” I can her my mother say, if she were, indeed, made flesh again.**

 

**I oval my mouth, and take a deep breath. Time to work.**

 

**I shouldn’t dally. Singing does wonders for my heart.**

 

**For now. Or, rather, for _then. Now, I don’t think I know any more songs. But, as always—I can be so very stupidly wrong._ **

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 “ _ **You think me so pure, I see it in your face, dog,” says his “little mocking bird”.**_

 

_**Brow shrivels up now. Now.** _

 

_**Here we go, the dance that was learned. Loopy-loo.** _

 

_**Loopy-lie.** _

 

“ _ **I once killed a...a man. I had to, just as you have had to.”**_

 

_**I am now worse than Lord Baelish ever was. All because of the look in those pretty, stone eyes.** _

 

_**I deserve to die and rot in the last, frozen 7 th hell where not even murderers can go.** _

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to the clever readers who get my "Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison" reference and a more direct reference to a certain ubiquitous nursery rhyme! Cookies and love, dear, gentle readers!

**29.**

**Fight**

**or**

**Flight;**

 

**Which**

**Is**

**It?**

 

_No. She can’t be serious. Ha, ha! How stupid does she think a dog is?! It makes it bloody vomit. Little dripping, poisonous tongue. Oh, this child will bleed for all but tellin’ the dog it’s a fool!_

 

_Fuck!_

 

 

Jerking her lips with two fingers, a beast springs into action. The urge to let the body rage is growing in multiplying waves. But...his hand falters in a squirm. Those souls of azure brilliance glisten with...moisture. She tweets a sad peep. She tries, quite unsuccessfully, to lower her gaze.

 

Instantly, the storm resurges inside.

 

“You can’t,” rumbles the stone. It reaches his arid mouth. She cringes. She is so crestfallen. Releasing all contact, he drips away into dimmer light.

 

“Stop,” comes ¼ of a breath.

 

“What?” answers a passive inquiry.

 

“I fuckin’ despise you, girl, all of you! Miserable, sobbin’ robin of pain! I want to ki— _ll_ you, rip you apart, then myself, and we’d both suffer far _less!”_

 

“ _And you’re the screamin’ pig! As the one you killed! I tried to see the man you were.”_

 

“What _man do you see, whining babe? What did you dream? A shining knight, pissing flowers for you? Who would crown you his bloody queen? He ne’er lived! Bu’ there’s a hound left to kill your hopin’.”_

 

Curiously, she twirls straight for him, gripping his stubbing fingers. Her claws are wet, but not sticky. They are dropping, but she stubbornly grips away to counter. Back goes the back, the feet, the waist. She doesn’t relent. This is when it decides to try and bite.

 

 

He lunges, mouth parting. On instinct, she freezes. The blow never lands. Breath tickles her back to the present, waking world. A soft patch of skin pips her mouth. She hears swallowing. Haltingly, her hands are brought up to his chest. The girl sees a revolving band of light nearby. A turning light?

 

_How?_

 

_Dim light returns._

 

_She steadies herself._

 

_A sigh._

 

She gasps.

 

“You canna dance, stupid little bird. _That’s rich,”_ she hears him grumble, a half-smile fading in such an avalanching hiss.

 

“You didn’t ask,” the girl returns.

 

“No right to speak,” the dog-man says with conviction.

 

“So you say, sir,” she politely jabs.

 

“So I know, mistress. More than anything.”

 

“How?”

 

“ _How?”_

 

“ _Yes, how?”_

 

He laughs, a short snort.

 

“ _How_ do you know?”

 

Without warning she is in a firm hold, an egg in basket, scooping upward to a hooking nose.

 

“Please,” slips out of her mouth.

 

“Annaw gonna hurt yoo,” he babbles, sounding 2 and nothing, pausing to gage her face, agog.

 

He was a child--a boy again, stumbling over his manners and wants, heart set on closeness, but lacking in any grace in the art of how to achieve intended meaning behind such feelings. These thoughts made her giggle and quiver in the same heartbeat. Awkward gentleness. Not a dog, but a puppy. A long, rough-edged, but silly young pup. For whatever reason, this side, when free seemed to be fond of...or...something like this.

 

“Girl?”

 

“Sorry, dog. I didn’t intend--”

 

“Intend? You have _intentions? How righ’ly courtly and proper, swee’ lady.”_

 

Here, he laughs like a rusting wheel. Another disharmoniously striking arch of a noise. Like she parried him with a blade.

 

“What have I done, mistress?” the strange not-a-man quietly wondered.

 

“Pardon me, sir, I--”

 

He tuts. Seemingly, he admonishes her, lightly shaking his head. His index finger taps her lips.

 

“Won’t you just call me your servant, little one, mmm?”

 

“No, I can’t—I--”

 

“Have n’ right, do yah?”

 

“No, I don’t,” she says, eyes rolling down.

 

He tips his nose up to look into her eyes again.

 

He looks inquisitively insatiable for the moment.

 

“Tell me, if you would, why you don’.”

 

“It isn’t fair,” she states.

 

“To _you?”_

 

“ _No, no! It’s not fair because you don’t deserve to be my servant!”_

 

He smiles the half, crooked, wavy, smoky grin he gives, nodding quickly.

 

“I think you mi’ be sayin’ th’ two of us...’r equals, hmm?”

 

His stone eyes reflect a dewy kind of hopefulness she has several a time witnessed in her brothers while practicing fighting in yards or when receiving looks from maidens.

 

“We...we are...friends, dog, I believe,” she nervously supplies, grinning.

 

“...are we?” he sounds a bit thrown, lost.

 

“I thi—ought, perhaps--”

 

The warrior is far away in half a beat, in her eyes.

 

His head tilt quiets her. She begins chewing on her lip and dirty nails. With the other thick arm, he steals way said hand. He chuckles.

 

“A lady needs to mind her unclean claws, lest she become ill once more,” he responds quite calmly, detaching.

 

“I am sor--”

 

“You’ve done no wrong,” he puts in firmly.

 

“But I see it in your face--”

 

“You can’t...let me _bother you so! But you...yo—yah do! And I—ah--I canna stand this, fuck! Oh, stoppit! Little bird...stupid...bird...don’--”_

 

“ _Dog, please--”_

 

“ _Please? A silly babe dove coos for mercy yet again?_ _ **There is no true mercy in this world,**_ _ ** _ **piullag**_**_ _ **. I canna gi’ it ta yah thi’ way! You abide by all a dog tells you, but if it begs you for your h--ah-elp, you fucking—won’t!!!”**_

 

 

“ _ **I’m nobody! I hardly live!”**_

 

“ _ **So fucking stupid, babe girl! I’ve never even lived before...inside.”**_

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

He lowered her to the base of the cool ground, mindful of her bare feet. He gradually steps back two paces, just enough to still keep watching her. She found it...unnerving, at the least. The next memory she has is of being cold, almost too cold to shake it off, but she tires of even caring about her state. She worries about her non-friend, strange, moody, acidic and terribly gloomy. But, she never finds any true cause to blame him for these, the only company he doesn’t mind keeping.

 

She shakily sings to herself,

 

“Mother Cathrine, young and fair

Went to the sideboard, but nothing was there

Feeding her sweet pup was sole on her mind,

But, here, there was naught there to find.”

 

When she remembers herself next, she is wrapped in his cleanest tunic as is a bundle of fresh bread. She wishes she, too, has the stomach to rip his kindness to pieces. In lieu of rage, she lets more sleep close her, beckoning her sacred dreams.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do you like it? Hate it? Help me out here! Leave feedback, please, loves! Thank you! 
> 
> KUDOS ARE LOVE AND INSPIRATION!
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THE HORIZONTAL RULES ( THESE: ___________) INDICATE CHANGES IN POINTS OF VIEW.
> 
> By the way, I only welcome constructive criticism. No comments like, "Your story sucks!" will be tolerated. Be specific, and be civil. I am a sensitive soul. I dream too much.
> 
> "Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison" was first a novel published in 1952, then adapted into a film of the same name in 1957. Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr (pronounced "Car") are brilliant together. Their love is respectful, and completely real in this film because they adored each other in life, but they never crossed those lines in either the movie or in each others' company. In keeping with these facts, this story is very much the same, but dodges a few bullets and enters borderline/gray area multiple times.
> 
> Don't sue me, George R. R. Martin, H.B.O. writers, FOX Pictures, et. all. I don't profit from this, nor do I ever intend to. I'm not stealing any characters, I am just playing with them. I'll give them back when I am done, I swear it. Don't burn me for it, Gregor! Thanks!


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